One Rule - No Rules

by Lawrence Ambrose

  One Rule: No Rules

  By

  Lawrence Ambrose

  Copyright 2015

  All Rights Are Reserved. No parts of this book may be used or reproduced without permission of the author.

  Proofread and Edited by Sweet Syntax

  Cover by Lawrence Ambrose

  COMMENTS, QUESTIONS, OR COMPLAINTS? Please email me at: lawrencej63@gmail.com

  CONTENTS

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 1

  THE GUY RUNNING ACROSS the field didn't look much like a jogger, Thalma thought. He had long jeans and long hair and was wearing a jeans vest which flapped around his slim body as he ran. He and her pickup were on a collision course. She let off the gas as he stopped at the side of the road and started waving desperately.

  She pulled over, rolling down her window as he sprinted up to her.

  "Hi," he gasped. "Can I catch a ride, by any chance?"

  "Where are you going?"

  "Anywhere."

  "Funny coincidence. That's where I'm going."

  He let out a nervous chuckle, and rushed around the truck, leaping inside and slamming the door.

  "Thanks," he said.

  Thalma put it in gear. They rolled back onto the road.

  "You seem to be in a hurry to be anywhere," she said.

  "Ha, yeah. I'm missing my favorite reality TV program."

  "Amazing Race?"

  "How did you guess?" He laughed in a choking way, as if he were about to barf.

  In her rearview mirror, Thalma spotted what her keen police radar identified as a Breton County Sheriff's SUV turn onto the road a quarter of a mile behind them.

  "Does your morning run have anything to do with the local police?"

  "What?" Panic widened his eyes. "Why did you ask that?"

  "Because one's coming up behind us."

  He glanced over his shoulder. "Oh, crap."

  Thalma raised an eyebrow as he hunkered down in his seat.

  "Okay, I admit, I'm in kind of a bind," he said. "But before I say anything more, could I ask you something?"

  "Okay."

  "How do you feel about cops?"

  "I don't like them."

  "Really? Good! Okay, second question. How do you feel about drugs?"

  "What kind of drugs?"

  "Let's say, hypothetically, dope. You know, marijuana?"

  "I don't have a problem with it."

  "Excellent. Now how do you feel about the war on drugs?"

  "Complete bullshit."

  The young man sagged with a large sigh of relief.

  "Okay," he said. "I'm going to be brutally honest and put my life in your hands. Here's my situation. A cop tried to pull me over. I guess I was speeding, or he didn't like my hair. But since I had several ounces of dope under my back seat, and I'd been partaking during the drive, I couldn't let him pull me over, you know. So I made a run for it."

  "What kind of car do you drive?"

  "A 1987 Honda Accord."

  "You tried to outrun a cop in a 1987 Honda Accord."

  "Ha, well, right – but it's modified. It's got an inline six from a caddie in it. I can hit 140 easy. Anyway, I was pulling away – the cop was driving one of those stupid SUVs they love here in South Dakota – but then I ran into a dead end. My car is definitely not an off-road vehicle, so..."

  "You ran for it."

  "Yup. And so here I am."

  In that instant the red sheriff SUV fifty yards back lit up, sirens blazing.

  "Did he get a good look at you?" Thalma asked.

  "I don't think so. He never got that close."

  "Is the dope on you?"

  "Nope. I stashed it in the field."

  "Good."

  Thalma pulled over. The officer climbed out and approached, squinting at the young man. Thalma rolled down the window.

  "I'm Sheriff Martson, Miss," he said. "A few minutes ago, I was pursuing a man who fled across the field behind me. I pulled you over, because your passenger strongly resembles him. Did you just pick him up?"

  "No," said Thalma. "He's a friend of mine."

  "I'll need to see his I.D."

  The young man gave a helpless shrug. "Sorry, officer, I'm just a passenger. I didn't bring it with me."

  "What's your name?"

  "Uh, Marvin."

  "Last name?"

  "Short."

  Sheriff Martson stared at him. The young man swallowed.

  "All right," said the Sheriff, facing Thalma. "Miss, I'll need to see your license, registration, and proof of insurance, please."

  She fished the registration and insurance out of her glove compartment, and handed him her driver's license. He returned to his car.

  "I'm really sorry about this," said the young man. "The last thing I want is to get you in trouble."

  "I'm not going to get in trouble."

  Five minutes later, the sheriff strolled back to them. Thalma accepted her papers and license.

  "I will ask you again," he said. "Is this person a friend of yours?"

  "Yes, Officer. Marvin and I go back a ways."

  She met the sheriff's baleful gaze without blinking for one long moment.

  "You have a nice day, Miss," he said.

  Thalma pulled back onto the road as the sheriff returned to his car. Her guest watched him go, his body sagging with relief.

  "I'm surprised he let us go," he said. "I could tell he didn't believe us."

  "He could see I wasn't going to be pushed."

  "Being as hot as you are..." He stopped himself with a self-conscious chuckle. "I mean, being a good-looking young woman probably helped. If it had been me driving he probably would've hauled my ass out of the car and thrown me face down on the asphalt."

  Thalma shot him a thin smile. "You think I'm hot?"

  "Uh, well" - the young man gave her a shy smile – "yes. I mean, who wouldn't?"

  She faced forward, her smile fading.

  "Anyway, thanks for saving my butt."

  "Is your butt worth saving?"

  "In my purely subjective opinion, definitely."

  They drove for a while in silence, Thalma smiling to herself while the man glanced at her with somewhat wary eyes.

  "Where are you headed?" he asked.

  "Home."

  "May I ask where that is?"

  "A few miles from here."

  "Sounds cool. I guess I should introduce myself. I'm Louis Maxwell."

  "Thalma. With an 'a.' Thalma Engstrom."

  "You're kidding."

  "Why would I be kidding?"

  "Thelma and Louise? You've seen the movie, right?"

  "No."

  "It seems we were destined to meet." He dropped back in his seat and sighed. "They're probably impounding my car as we speak."

  "You should call and report it stolen."

  "Good idea. If only I had a cell phone."

  "I do."

  "Ah, but if I use it they could trace the call to you."

  "No they won't. I have a couple of spares in the glove box. Feel free."

  "Spares?"

  "Untraceable cells."

  "Really? Sweet." Louis fumbled in the glove box, retrieving one. "I suppose I shouldn't ask?"

  "I could tell you, but then I'd have to kill you."

  She smiled. Louis's attempt to smile back faltered.

  "Anyway," he said, "I guess I could use your phonebook when we get to your house, since I don't know t
he police number. Again, I really appreciate this."

  They rolled off the county road down a long highway toward a white farmhouse surrounded by trees. A huge Rottweiler squatted in the front yard. It trotted over as they stopped.

  "How do you get along with dogs?" Thalma asked.

  "Well, ah, I'm really more of a cat person."

  "That's unfortunate."

  She climbed out and patted the Rottweiler on its massive head. Its dark eyes fastened on Louis, who'd remained in the pickup.

  "He's okay," Thalma said. She continued to the house without a backward glance. The dog remained in front of the pickup, watching its occupant with an air of deliberate patience.

  "Would you mind, ah, calling your dog or something?" Louis called through a half-opened window.

  "Soc," Thalma said, barely raising her voice. "Go lie down."

  Louis drew a breath of relief as the dog stalked off and dropped down in the shade of a towering cottonwood. He eased open the door, planting one foot, then the other, on the gravel. He hurried to where Thalma waited at the front door. She ushered him into a sparsely decorated living room.

  "Thanks," he said. "Sock is sort of an odd name for a dog, isn't it?"

  "It's short for Socrates."

  Louis released a nervous laugh. "Even odder. Though as a student of philosophy myself, I rather like it."

  "Socrates is a student of human nature," said Thalma. "When he senses something isn't right, he tends to let his teeth do the talking."

  As Louis suppressed a shiver, Thalma dropped down in front of her computer desk and tapped a few keys.

  "What police department has jurisdiction?" she asked.

  "I live in Breton."

  She tapped more keys. "Here's the number."

  He punched it into the phone as she read it. After a couple of rings, a woman answered: "Breton Police Department."

  "Hi. My name is Louis Maxwell. My car was stolen." He paused. "No, I'm not certain when. I just noticed it was missing a half-hour ago..."

  He hung up after a few minutes, and shrugged to his host.

  "They were skeptical, to put it mildly," he said. "I need to go down and fill out a report, and some cop wants to question me."

  "If they have anything, they'll have an arrest warrant out for you in a day or two," said Thalma. "Otherwise, they're counting on you to help them charge you."

  "Somehow I don't feel all that obliging."

  Thalma swiveled in her computer chair to face him. Her blue eyes were the coolest Louis had ever seen. Not cold, not even skeptical – just straightforward in their study of him. He shifted his footing, massaging one wrist and glancing toward a window which framed the front yard and the large dark form of the dog settled in the grass.

  "So," he said. "I don't suppose I could further impose on you for a ride to town?"

  Thalma continued to study him. It was disconcerting, thought Louis, being studied by someone as beautiful as she was. Yet she stared at him as if her beauty didn't matter, as if she wasn't even aware of it. He also couldn't remember a girl that good-looking whose face was so hard. Well, maybe not hard, exactly. More like firm. With the cleft in her chin she was like John Wayne in drag. A really gorgeous John Wayne. Louis winced a little.

  Her arms and legs swelled with muscle – not bulging, but corded like steel cables – a Scandinavian panther in repose.

  Louis smiled at his thoughts. As usual, he had too many thoughts, always wandering, occasionally lighting on something of interest. In this case, his thoughts were tethered in firm orbit around his enigmatic host.

  "I'll take you back into town," she said.

  "Thanks. I'd appreciate that."

  "Could I ask you a question?"

  "Sure."

  "What do you do for a living?"

  "Ha, well, interesting question. I work at Mick's Custom Auto. We modify cars and fabricate shit, mostly. We sell some of my stuff on Ebay – custom suspension, transmission, and motor parts." He shrugged.

  "You have welding skills, then?"

  "You better believe it. People call me an 'artist of the arc.'"

  "And you sell dope on the side?"

  "Oh, you know." He waved a dismissive hand. "Sometimes a dude I know offers a large order discount, and I eke out a little profit selling to a few friends."

  "You have a house in Breton?"

  "An apartment." Louis frowned. "I'm almost starting to feel this is a job interview."

  Thalma smiled. "Maybe it could be, if you're interested."

  "I guess that, ah, depends what you have in mind."

  "Lately, I've been thinking of taking on a business partner."

  "Oh. Huh." Louis ran his fingers through his long, tangled hair. "What kind of business, might I ask?"

  "Before I answer that, I have another question for you." She lowered her voice until it resonated - like timpani, Louis thought. "Do you work for any law enforcement agency?"

  "Jesus, no." Louis laughed. "What kind of cop goes running across a field to avoid being busted for possession?"

  "That was just the story you told me."

  "Do you think Sheriff what's-his-face was telling a story, too?"

  "Not likely." She smiled. "But a girl can never be too sure. Especially in my line of work."

  "Which is?"

  "Before I tell you, I will ask you to swear on your life that you will reveal nothing about me, other than what I choose to have revealed."

  "On my life?" Louis swallowed, eyeing the front door. "That sounds kind of extreme."

  "And I promise you that your life would depend on not betraying me."

  "Oh, hey." He started backing toward the door under her cool-eyed stare. "That's a little heavy for me, no offense. I think I'll take you up on your offer to drive me back to town, if that's okay."

  "It is."

  If she was annoyed or disappointed, Louis couldn't see it. She rose in a smooth, oddly ballet-like motion. He waited for her to open the door before following her out down the front steps.

  "Do you have a habit of betraying people?" she asked, in a conversational tone as they walked to her pickup.

  "Hell, no," Louis stated. "I've never betrayed anyone, and never will."

  "Then why were you afraid to agree to that?"

  Louis slowed to a stop at the pickup. "Look, ah, Thalma, could I be honest?"

  "I'd recommend it."

  "I don't mean to offend you, especially since you could probably kick my ass into the next world, but you kinda freak me out."

  She surprised him with a laugh. "I get that a lot."

  "Good. So you're not, like, offended or anything?"

  "Not at all. Just a little disappointed, maybe."

  "Really? Why?"

  She shrugged. "I just sensed we had something in common. I don't get that feeling very often."

  "You really think we have something in common?"

  "'Sensed' was the word I used."

  She opened the driver's side door and climbed in. After a moment of hesitation, Louis slid in from the other side.

  "What did you sense we have in common," he said as she started the engine. "If you don't mind me asking?"

  "It doesn't matter now."

  Louis toyed with his hair and scratched his beard as they drove the six miles to Breton, tormented by unanswered questions and by the feeling that maybe, just maybe, he was missing out on something special – the kind of special that hadn't come around that often in his short life. He'd dropped out of Breton University when he'd violated his scholarship conditions, and had been floundering ever since. Now, instead of being an engineer, he was slumming at a car shop that was really more of a sweatshop at little more than Wal-Mart wages. The owner, Phil Morgan, worked him like a fucking wage slave, and always found a way to weasel out of paying him overtime.

  "I like your hair," said Thalma, noting his compulsive grooming with a dry smile.

  "You do?" He patted a curl back in place. "It's not too long?"

&nb
sp; "Nope. I like long hair on a man, if it's nice and thick. I've tried to grow mine, but it just ends up looking scraggly."

  "I think your hair is cool. It's really shiny. And the length suits you."

  "You think so?"

  "Yup, I do. Not that I'm a sartorial authority or anything."

  They rolled into Breton. With the usual swarm of SDSU students gone for the summer, the Saturday traffic was light.

  "Why don't you drop me off at Wally World, if you don't mind," Louis said. "It's only a mile from my apartment."

  Thalma pulled into the parking lot, finding a space near the front.

  "Thanks, Thalma with an 'a.' You really saved my butt." His grin was lopsided. "Cops don't like it when you try to outrun them."

  "Yes. They tend to take that personally."

  "Okay. Well, maybe I'll see you around." He squeezed the door handle, and then hesitated. "I take it this business you were talking about is dangerous?"

  "I'd rate the danger as mild, but it is there."

  "Illegal, I assume."

  "No comment."

  "And the pay? The whole roommate thing? How would that work?"

  "How much do you make at your job?"

  "A lousy eleven dollars an hour – between four and five hundred bucks a week. Before the IRS vultures sink their beaks in it. After that I'm lucky to have enough for the bills and a coffee at Perkins."

  "You'd make more than that. As for IRS vultures" – her smile was thin – "how much you want to donate of your salary to them will be up to you."

  "It would be all cash, under the table?"

  "It could be. Or part in check, if you want some documented income."

  "Sounds cool."

  Louis's grip on the door handle clenched just short of opening. The week before him flashed before his eyes, and he didn't like the look of it. Making a statement at the police station to sneering cops – it was always possible they might charge him even if he persisted in his charade – and then back to that damn raised pickup he'd been wrestling with for the last two weeks trying to find the right balance with the springs and transmission. Weeks of long, hot days under neon lights and an asthmatic air conditioner with his cheapskate boss whining about why he was taking so long. It was probably going to cost him most of a week's salary to get his car out of the impound lot, wherever that was.

  But with any luck, I won't be in jail, Louis thought. I might be pissed off and tired and underpaid, but I'd still be a free man.