Run For the Money (4 page)

Bo sighed. He was sick of being wet. It was a nice car too.

He walked north on the two-lane. The opposite of Slick.

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H
er first thought was Delmer. Who else would pound on her door that way? Shit. This would be the night she finally pulled Slick’s old Bowie knife from under the pillow and stabbed the fat fuck in the heart.

She’d imagined it many times before. After he was dead she’d have to pull down his pants, take out his dick to stage the scene for the cops so there would be no doubt he came down there to rape her. She thought an added bonus would be to write EMMA in lipstick on his stomach as some sort of sick proclamation of love. She’d stolen a lipstick from Sylvia months ago just for the occasion.

“Who is it?” She held her robe closed but did not tie it. Served her right for sleeping in the nude. That halfwit could probably smell her through the walls.

“Police. Open up, Emma.”

Stash the Bowie and tie the robe. Emma opened.

“Let’s see some I.D.”

Detective MacKaye flipped open his worn leather badge wallet for her inspection. “Want to write down my badge number?” His tone was that of a Cary Grant character, charming even while he insulted you.

She shot him a sour look and opened the door wide. Letting a cop in was better than letting the eavesdroppers listen.

MacKaye was early 40s, going grey around the ears but otherwise a handsome man. Solid jaw, muscular physique. All his life people told him he looked like Robert Redford. He’d trade his looks for Redford’s money. MacKaye carried an involuntary grin that worked well for a detective. It made everyone around him feel like he knew something they didn’t.

He wore a long overcoat covering a generic suit made for comfort over fashion. He leaned an umbrella outside the door before he stepped in.

The detective gave the basement a once-over, wasn’t impressed. Sure as hell didn’t look like the home of any $642,000.

“Heard from Slick tonight?”

“What? No. Why should I? He’s on his way to Wharton.”

“Yeah, not any more.”

It sounded to her like one of the million code ways cops have of telling you someone is dead. “What happened?”

“Seems the transport van had a little accident.” Her heart sped up. “Slick and his little partner are nowhere to be found. But, to be fair, there’s two miles of train tracks we still need to search and what they’re looking for won’t really resemble a body anymore.”

“Would you tell me what the fuck happened already.”

“That’s all I know. Your boyfriend’s van crashed. He’s nowhere around, two officers dead. So, I’m thinking, where would I go if I was suddenly free and needed to get dry? To my dear beloved.”

MacKaye circled around the chipped-topped kitchen table. A weak florescent tube lit the corner kitchen space from under a cabinet. He leaned forward resting his hands on the back of a chair.

“He wouldn’t come here,” said Emma.

“Why not?”

“Because you’re here. If you’re smart enough to figure this much out he’s twice as smart to know to stay away.”

“He’s so smart he went and got himself sent up for twenty-five years.”

“That was Bo’s fault.”

MacKaye stood upright again. He continued his circle around the table, clicking his tongue.

“Oh, believe me, I don’t think for a second this is the first place he’d come. He may like you but he’d stop at his first love . . . the money.” He scanned the room again for her benefit. “I can see you don’t have anything resembling money here.”

“You haven’t looked under my mattress.”

“I’m afraid of roaches.”

Emma shifted her weight on her hips and thought about putting on some coffee, but it might entice him to stay. Now that the stink of cop had dissipated a little she could see he was a handsome man, the way women go nuts for George Clooney even though he’s old enough to be an uncle. And no scars on his face. Definitely a plus. The longer she was away from Slick’s features the harder it became to ignore them. After two years of dating she’d gotten used to the way he looked and it didn’t bother her, but now, after more than a month in custody, it freaked her out to look back at pictures.
Jesus, I fucked that?

“Mind if I ask what a girl like you was doing with a guy like Slick?”
Fuck,
she thought,
he’s a goddamn mindreader.
“I mean, you’re a handsome woman.”

“You mean me or my tits? You’ve been spending most of your time looking at them. They don’t know where the money is either, for the record.”

“I’m curious.”

“Prince Charming wasn’t exactly knocking at my door.”

“I just knocked at your door.”

God help her, she blushed. He flashed that grin again, a sliver of white teeth winking through. “So he hasn’t called? You won’t be in trouble if he has. No crime in answering the phone.”

“No, he hasn’t called.”

“And you don’t have any plans to see him?”

“In twenty-five years.”

“Well, thank you for being honest with me.” His grin made her uneasy even though she knew she was telling the truth. “We’ll be keeping an eye on you in case he decides to drop by. He’s a dangerous criminal you know.”

“So I hear.”

MacKaye crossed back to the door. “Will you call me if he does decide to give you a ring?”

“Doubtful.”

“I didn’t think so.” If he had a hat he would have tipped it.

He dripped rain water from his umbrella as he walked back up the stairs. After he turned the corner another face peered from the top of the steps.

“Go to sleep, Delmer,” said Emma. She closed the door harder than she should have at that hour of the night.

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T
he pickup truck struggled on three tires plus one rim scraping down the pavement like a dog dragging its ass over carpet.

Time to give up. The diner was a good ten miles in the past. The woods had fallen away, given over to good old fashioned progress and expansion. A mini mart, Motel 6, neon, stop lights and billboards. Traffic was nonexistent because of the storm. Slick had only seen two cars in the whole journey. Luckily, he passed them before the rim started sparking.

The rain was letting up. Could have been the eye of the storm. The wind was still pissed off about something and taking it out on the trees and anything not bolted to the ground.

Slick aimed the truck for an empty lot next to a paint store. The curb cut bounced him in his seat when the bare rim made it over. He parked the truck under a tree and left it. He left the shotgun too. No sense drawing attention to himself now that he had a change of clothes. He slid on his new stolen coat and headed out to the deserted streets.

Slick had never hot-wired a car in his life so he ruled that out. It was after midnight and traffic, such as it was, would only get slower. The darkness, the rhythmic tapping of the rain, the soreness from the crash and the comedown from the adrenalin high of the diner came over him like a tranquilizer. He could slip into a dumpster, tuck up in the sacks of garbage and sleep for a week. Being wet again didn’t help. Even the light drizzle got inside his collar, soaked through the jeans and made the sores on his wrists and ankles throb.

Down two blocks past a YMCA, a ninety-nine cent store, a place that did custom rims and a psychic – all closed – he spotted a welcome beacon of hope. The telltale yellow of a cab stood out in the rain. The taxi – lights on, exhaust spewing steam – sat idling on the side of the road outside a Subway sandwich shop; closed as of five minutes ago. The interior light was on, the cabbie reading a paper in between sips of coffee.

Slick jogged diagonally across the street, against the punishing wind, and came up on the cab from behind. He pulled on the handle of the rear door but found it locked. He stepped up to the passenger door and knocked on the glass. The window motored down six inches, not exactly inviting, but better for Slick. His face had been known to start any conversation off on the wrong foot and the less noticed he was, the better.

“Hey there, can I catch a ride?”

The cab driver spoke like he had a porcupine caught in his throat. Pot belly, five-pack-a-day habit, remnants of his sandwich still lingering in his stubble that grew half way between a beard and “I don’t give a shit.” He gargled out, “Can you read, asshole?”

Slick leaned closer to the slit in the window. “What?”

The cab driver swallowed down his oversized bite. “I asked if you can read. Maybe I should ask if you can hear too.”

“What’s your problem?”

The window slid down six more inches, letting out a little more of the fart-and-mayonnaise aroma. “Look up there.” The cabbie punched the roof of his cab three times. Slick lifted his head and saw the illuminated OFF DUTY light on the cab’s roof.

“Hey man, it’s raining like hell out here. I’m just looking for a ride. I got money, not like I’m asking for a favor.”

The cab driver was sitting on years of people asking for one more ride, one more fare across town after his shift. Rainy nights were the worst. People tried to appeal to his better nature, of which he had none. Enough.

“Go fuck yourself. Off duty means off duty, you ugly son-of-a-bitch. I bet you had to sneak up on your mom’s tit to get a drink, didn’t you?”

He punctuated his insult with a rumbling snort of his nose, a raucous clearing of the throat and deep swallow of phlegm. The window went up. Slick regretted leaving the shotgun behind. He rapped on the window again, hard. The slit was only three inches this time.

“Hey, what the fuck, man?”

“Are you that shit-all stupid? I’m not taking any fares. Now fuck off.”

Up went the window again. Slick took his argument to the source. He stepped around the front of the cab to the driver’s side window and pounded with a fist, rattling the glass. The wind, sensing Slick’s anger, picked up with powerful gusts.

The door opened, knocking Slick in the shin as it did. Slick hopped backwards on one leg.

The cab driver stood up faster than a man of his heft had a right to. He extended his right arm, lifting the gun; a snub nose .38.

“You wanna talk? Okay, let’s talk.”

Slick stumbled and spun on one leg making an awkward retreat. The Cabbie drove forward like his brakes were cut. The rain began to pick up again. Wind blew shot glass sized raindrops sideways and flopped the cabbie’s combover onto his forehead and down into his eyes.

Slick regained his balance and stood, hands raised. “Woah, woah, woah! Take it easy.” A long damn time since someone got the drop on Slick. He didn’t like it one bit, but didn’t see a way out of it yet.

“Won’t take no for an answer, huh?” The .38 was leveled at Slick’s face. The cabbie didn’t notice the rain, the hair in his face or the cold. As hard as the wind blew the steadiest thing in the street was his right arm and the gun at the end of it.

“I’m leaving, man. I’m out of here.” Slick hated the feeling. He was outdone. It happened rarely, but if his natural features failed to intimidate someone the way they usually did, he always had backup of the guns and knives he liked to carry. Without them he was weak, easily spooked. His offense was great, his defense sucked.

It was what he feared most about prison. He would have no weapons and those guys didn’t intimidate easy. Ugly was par for the course and there would be guys who were bigger, meaner, uglier and had connections. Going to prison would have been like starting over in the fifth grade, only with a lot more sodomy.

He never told his fears to Emma. Never would have told Bo anything to make Slick seem less badass. Prison time he could handle. The repetitious days he could do. He’d be happy with three square meals and satellite TV. It was the inability to scare people he dreaded.

The Cabbie turned to sarcasm. “No, get in. I’ll take you anywhere you want to go.” The offer seemed less than sincere with a pistol pointed at your head.

“Really, man, I’m sorry. I’ll get out of here.” Slick stopped short of turning his back on the crazed cab driver.

“Y’know maybe it’s time for someone to give me a goddamn ride.” Oh shit, thought Slick, now he’s on a mission. “No one ever takes me anywhere. I got to waste my life taking you dumb shits all over town for your lousy dollar fifty tip? Well, fuck you, citizen.”

Slick wished he would fucking shoot already rather than to have to listen to his manifesto.

“Y’know I don’t come to your job and—”

His words were cut short by a street sign. Yield. It tore loose from a pole half a block down and the wind carried the flat skipping-stone shape and spun it, Frisbee-like, on the air, gathering speed as it cut through the rain.

It landed, a fierce metal edge, in the cab driver’s neck. Such a thick side of beef, he wasn’t decapitated, but the yield sign tried. His meaty head tilted to the side until his right ear touched his shoulder, the inside of his thick neck exposed and drinking in rain. The square of metal crashed to the street and the cabbie fell on top of it, spraying blood which spread in the wind and mixed with rain.

The body landed and spasmed twice. His neck splayed open, an anatomy lesson lit by the cab’s headlights. The body convulsed one last time and his gut contracted sending bile and a not-yet-digested Subway sandwich up his esophagus and out the gaping hole in his neck. The vomit quickly turned red, colored by the pumping blood streaming from the wound.

Slick moved quickly, stifling a gag. He stepped forward, bent down and snagged the gun from the cab driver’s hand, stepped up to the taxi, leaned in and took the cigar box on the center console that held the night’s fares and kept walking.

He ran fast down the street like it was made of hot coals. Two blocks later, after the smell of fresh stomach bile had been washed out of his nose, he thought how stupid it was to leave a running vehicle behind. He stopped and turned, took three steps and saw brake lights. A city bus, empty except for the driver, slowed to a stop next to the cab. Slick spun again without missing a stride and kept walking.

A quarter mile away, soaked to the bone again, Slick came to a motel offering hourly rates. His kind of place. He knew he couldn’t make it to Emma tonight. It was too far and he was too tired. Better to grab a few hours shut-eye, regroup and formulate an actual plan with a clear head.