Lola on Fire

by Rio Youers

  “No. Tell me now.”

  “There’s not enough time. We’ve got to hand the key in at three.” It was moments like this that he wanted to appear strong, show her that he had everything under control. Instead, his chin quivered, his shoulders slumped. “Please, Moll. Let’s hit the road. I’ll tell you everything, I swear.”

  She brushed the hair from her eyes and looked at him. He hated doing this to her. She was his best friend, his single source of light. He didn’t know then that it was about to get much worse.

  “I’m finding it harder and harder to believe you.”

  “I’m doing the best I can.”

  His phone chimed. Mort Kane. “Your car’s ready,” he said, and Brody told him that he’d be right there. He looked at Molly, his chin still quivering. She nodded.

  “Don’t fuck with me, Brody. You’d better tell me every goddamn detail, or I swear to God I’m jumping out on the move.”

  She’d do it, too, to prove a point, that she didn’t take shit from him—not from anybody. He imagined her popping the door lock and bailing on Interstate 40. There one second. Gone the next. And he’d see her in the rearview, tumbling across the inside lane, crutches kicking sparks off the blacktop.

  * * *

  Repairs were $540 cash, but Brody haggled them down to five even. A minor victory. The car started like a champ, purred for a time, then everything started to rattle and smell, reminding him that it was still the same old shitbox, after all.

  He drove to the motel and rolled into the space outside their door. As he stepped out of the car, Katie hollered to him from the main office.

  “Good timing, kid. You got a phone call.”

  Brody frowned. Exactly nobody knew he was here, and his very few acquaintances—should they call—would hit him up on his cell.

  “Got the wrong kid,” he hollered back.

  “Don’t think so. She described you pretty good, right down to the shitty car and crippled sister.”

  This hooked him. Any anger he felt at Katie describing Molly as crippled was dissolved by her use of the word “she.” He didn’t have a girlfriend. His mom had deserted him. His buddies—such as they were—were all male. He knew women, of course, lots of women, but only one who would call him.

  “Blair,” he growled down the phone. It seemed he couldn’t speak her name without growling.

  “Listen to me, Bro—”

  “How do you know where I am?”

  “That’s the reason I’m calling, you dick. I know where you are because they know where you are.”

  “What?”

  “It didn’t take my dad long to figure out who you are. Your face is way clear on the security footage.”

  “They know where I am?”

  “As soon as he had your name, he had your cell number. You ever hear of geolocation, Brody?”

  “Geo what?”

  “Location. It’s a way of tracking the exact whereabouts of a web-based computer or cell phone. There are programs. I can’t believe you didn’t dump your phone. How fucking stupid are you?”

  Very fucking stupid, Brody thought. He felt the awkward shape of his cell in the ass pocket of his jeans—imagined it sending out signals, bleeping, like a dolphin with a tracking device strapped to its skull.

  “What . . . ? How . . . ?” He shook his head. Too many thoughts, so many questions, hijacked his mind. He looked vacantly around Katie’s office, her smelly plastic phone pressed to his face. There was an Alberto Vargas calendar on the wall, a dog in the corner, curled up like a dropped scarf, that startled him when it yapped. A half-eaten TV dinner was pushed to one side of Katie’s desk, next to a thick novel with a bookmark parked midway through—Faulkner, Brody noted, which surprised him as much as the dog.

  He gathered his thoughts.

  “Why are you tipping me off?” It didn’t add up—something was wrong with this picture. “You framed me. Why not just let me hang?”

  “Maybe I like you more than I thought,” Blair responded. There was no warmth in her voice. “You probably don’t believe me, but I want us both to get away with this.”

  He didn’t believe her. Something else was going on.

  “How long have I got?” he asked.

  “I don’t know. Just get out of there. Right now. And if you know anybody who might protect you, now’s the time to look them up.”

  “No shit.”

  “And dump your fucking phone. My dad will hack it for contacts, which is why I’m calling you on the motel’s landline.”

  Brody slammed down the receiver and reeled from the main office, bumping his hip on the edge of Katie’s desk and knocking her TV dinner to the floor.

  “You shithead,” Katie shouted as he ran across the lot. “That’s an incidental!”

  He made it to their room in a series of bounding, Impala-like strides, shouldering the door open—

  “Molly,” he gasped. “We’ve got—”

  Brody froze. Everything appeared in stale snapshots. The tan room and crappy, mismatched furniture. His and Molly’s bags on the bed—she’d packed up at last—ready to go. The slick mobster grabbing Molly from behind, with one forearm around her throat and the muzzle of a semiautomatic pistol locked to the conch of her ear.

  “Man of the hour,” he said, and ran his fat, pale tongue across Molly’s brow. “Welcome to the party, motherfucker.”

  Chapter Seven

  “Let her go,” Brody said, both hands raised. “Please, man. She’s got nothing to do with this. I’m the one you want.”

  “Shut your mouth, kid. You’re in no position to deal.”

  There was a second mobster behind the door. Brody didn’t see him until the door banged closed and he grabbed Brody by the upper arm. He was wide and sweaty, his puffy face crowned by a mop of black, boyish curls.

  “Ain’t nothing to this kid, Leo. Look at him—scrawny little bitch.” The thug shook Brody by the arm. “I could break him in half, throw him in the trunk.”

  Molly squirmed against Leo. Shaky, terrified breaths rumbled from her chest.

  “Please,” Brody said. “I’m begging you, man. Leave her out of this.”

  Leo responded by tightening his hold on Molly, squeezing so hard that her feet left the ground. Her eyes swam with helplessness, fear, confusion. It was how she’d looked when the cop told them that their father was dead.

  “Come on, man,” Brody implored. “Just let her—”

  “This is how it’s going down,” the mobster gripping his left arm interjected. His face was close enough for Brody to smell the nicotine and cooked meats on his breath. “You two assholes are coming with us. You, shit-for-brains”—he shook Brody again—“are riding trunk-class. Play nice and we only have to tie you up and gag you. Try anything stupid and we start breaking bones. That’ll make the long trip to Pennsylvania even longer.”

  Pennsylvania, where Blair’s daddy was waiting.

  “Please, guys, please—”

  “The cripple can ride in back with me. But one wrong move”—the mobster jabbed a finger toward Molly—“and into the fucking trunk she goes.”

  Brody shook his head. There was no reasoning with these thug assholes, and he wasn’t going down without a fight. That might result in broken limbs, but it was better than being led like a sheep to Jimmy Latzo—to a long and miserable death.

  He had to do something.

  His eyes scanned the room. Could he grab Molly, hit the bathroom, lock the door, and jump out the window? Could he bounce the TV off Leo’s skull, snatch the pistol, shoot them both in the legs so they couldn’t give chase? The pistol, he thought, and his gaze flicked to his gym bag. The replica was inside, tucked toward the bottom. Having it in his hand would turn this into a different conversation.

  “Let’s go,” Leo said. “Right fucking now.”

  “Yeah,” Brody said, and yanked his left arm free of the mobster’s grip. At the same time, he curled his right hand into a firm knot and launched it. His knuckles conne
cted with the big guy’s mouth—smashed his lips against his teeth. It wasn’t a lights-out punch by any means, but it knocked him back a step. Brody lunged for his gym bag, and managed to get it unzipped before a sweaty hand grabbed him by the back of his neck, squeezed hard, turned him around. Another hand smothered his face, pushed him backward. Brody’s head thudded against the door and stars shimmered.

  “Son of a bitch,” the thug bellowed. “I should pop this motherfucker, Leo, I swear to fucking God.”

  “You can’t pop him, Joey.”

  “I’ll break his fucking teeth.”

  The stars dispersed. Brody saw the big mobster, Joey, directly in front of him, eclipsing the room, but what he really saw was a bully, mean and mindless—a grown-up version of Trevor Hyne, who’d relentlessly mimicked Molly’s way of talking, who’d pulled her hair and kicked the crutches out from under her. A gallon of anger raced through Brody. He recalled a certain video on YouTube, in which a lavishly mustachioed instructor tutored the technique behind a punch made famous by Bruce Lee. Brody also recalled a pillow duct-taped to a fence post in their backyard, hit so many times it had to be doubled over and taped again.

  Blood filled the gaps between Joey’s teeth. His eyes were flames. “I’m gonna take your fucking—”

  Brody moved so suddenly it surprised even him. He formed a fist with his right hand and thrust forward, covering four inches—not one—with improbable force and speed. Maybe it was muscle memory, or pure luck, but his form was exquisite. The power didn’t come from his wrist, or from his right arm, but rather from his entire body, transferred from the ground up, channeled into a fist-sized pocket of explosive energy.

  It worked.

  Joey—easily a hundred pounds heavier than Brody—spilled backward like he’d taken a sledgehammer to the gut. On another day, he might have dropped to one knee and recovered after several deep breaths, but this was not that day. His feet tangled and he fell with the density of a dropped cylinder block. The back of his skull met the edge of the nightstand with a tremendous crack. His eyes fluttered before he lost consciousness.

  Good night, Joey.

  Leo’s face was a stupid question mark. The pistol slumped in his hand. Brody, meanwhile, didn’t miss a beat. He pounced at his gym bag, dug his hand inside, came up with the replica. It felt immediately powerful, dependable, good—the opposite of how it had felt when he’d robbed the convenience store.

  Brody pointed it at the mobster. His hand was remarkably steady.

  “Okay, you son of a bitch,” he said. “Let’s deal.”

  * * *

  Could Leo tell, from across the room, that Brody’s gun was fake? Was there an obvious giveaway that someone who knew his way around a firearm—a mobster, say—would pick up on immediately? He studied Leo’s face, waiting for him to crack a smile or roll his big brown eyes.

  He did neither. Nor did he back down.

  “Bad fucking move, kid,” he said.

  “Let her go.”

  “You don’t get to call the shots.” Leo curled his lip, adjusting his hold on Molly so that she covered more of his body. “Drop the piece, or I’ll put a bullet in this bitch’s eye.”

  Brody took a step closer and leveled his arm to more determinedly aim at Leo. He cracked a smile of his own; Leo couldn’t tell that the gun was a fake. That was good. He also believed that Brody had killed Jimmy Latzo’s wife, and a man crazy enough to do that should be approached with extreme caution.

  This was the advantage he had to press.

  “You really want to negotiate with me?” Brody’s eyes and nostrils flared. He gestured at Joey. “Why don’t you ask this fat fuck how negotiating with me works out?”

  Leo’s gaze flicked toward Joey, who was slumped against the nightstand, his neck bent at an awkward angle.

  “Now let her go, or I’ll shoot you right between the eyes.” Brody showed his teeth, his lips still tilted into a kind of smile. “You know I’ll do it.”

  “Maybe you will,” Leo said, lifting Molly a little higher. “Or maybe you hit her instead.”

  “I doubt it,” Brody said. “But that’s a chance I’m willing to take.”

  Molly cried out and shook her head. She looked at Brody, still with the fear and helplessness in her eyes, but there was something else . . . a bewilderment, a distance, as if she were seeing something she thought was red, but had just learned was actually blue. This hurt Brody more than these goons ever could. He wondered if she’d ever look at him the same way again, or if he’d lost some vital piece of her forever.

  “You need to think about the situation you’re in,” Leo said, and maybe he sensed a frailty in Brody; he appeared to expand beyond Molly. The gun at her ear was darker, deadlier. “There are more of us on the way. Another carload. Bad hombres. They’ll be here any moment. You can’t take us all on, kid.”

  “I’ll worry about that,” Brody said, “when they get here. If they get here.”

  “Oh, they’ll get here. Jimmy wants you. And Jimmy always gets what he wants.”

  Brody flinched at the mention of Jimmy’s name, betraying just how scared he was.

  “And what are you going to get?” he asked Leo. “A bullet in your skull?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  If there was a balance, it had shifted in Leo’s favor. It wasn’t just that he had backup en route, but that he was becoming more confident that Brody wouldn’t—or couldn’t—pull the trigger.

  This standoff had to end.

  “Let’s talk about your situation,” Brody said. “You have a gun to my sister’s head, but you’re not going to pull the trigger. You’re not going to shoot me, either. Why? Because Jimmy wants us alive. Those are his orders. And Jimmy always gets what he wants.”

  Leo snorted and said, “You better goddamn believe it.”

  “I killed his wife, right? That’s what you think. Stabbed her, what . . . fifteen times? Twenty?” Brody couldn’t look at Molly when he said this. He kept his gaze riveted to the mobster. “I’m a crazy son of a bitch. Approach with caution, am I right? So tell me, Leo, how confident are you that I won’t pull the trigger?”

  “I don’t know about crazy, but you are a stupid son of a bitch.” Leo tensed his forearm, drawing Molly yet closer. “You really think I’m scared of you?”

  “You should be,” Brody said. “Because I’m exactly three seconds away from splashing your brains all over these fucking walls.”

  “Fuck you, kid. You won’t do it.”

  “You sure about that?”

  Leo sneered and dragged the pistol from Molly’s ear to her cheekbone, pressing so hard that her eye closed.

  “Let her go,” Brody said.

  “You got some fucking balls.”

  “One.”

  “Jimmy only wants you alive, you stupid fuck. He don’t care about the cripple.”

  “That’s my sister, you asshole.” Brody took another step forward. The tip of the replica was threateningly close to Leo. “Two.”

  It wasn’t only that Brody’s hand was steady; in the last few seconds, he became aware of a change inside, something running through his veins. It paralleled his fear, then overtook it—as cold as steel, and as solid. He was quietly confident that he could shoot Leo, if the gun were real, then turn and bang a round into Joey. The abruptness of this realization unnerved him, but didn’t stop the imagery from flowing through his mind: pulling the trigger twice, two deafening reports, two Italian corpses.

  “You’re dead,” he said, as if the things he’d seen in his mind had come to pass.

  Leo must have sensed this hard shift in Brody, because he lifted the gun from the side of Molly’s head and raised both hands. “Bad fucking move, kid,” he said for the second time, taking a step backward.

  Brody exhaled. Every muscle in his body clicked down a couple of notches. He kept the gun locked on Leo, though.

  “Come on, Moll.”

  He thought Molly might collapse on the bed in tears, and he
’d have to pull her from the room. But, always full of surprises, she grabbed her crutch from where it rested against the nightstand, held it like an oar, and drove the tip into Leo’s gut.

  “Who’s a fucking cripple?” she said.

  Leo doubled over, his cheeks blown out. Molly switched hand position on the crutch, holding it more like a baseball bat now. She placed her weight on her stronger right side and swiveled. The crutch whistled through the air and the tip clocked the ridge of Leo’s jaw. His head rolled sharply to the right. He dropped to his knees.

  Molly staggered toward Brody. She fell into his arms.

  “Get us out of here,” she said.

  Brody grabbed their bags from the bed and together they spilled from the room. Before the door closed, he saw Leo getting to his feet and taking one groggy step forward. Blood smeared his mouth and chin.

  The car—thank God for fleabag motels—was right outside, seven feet away. Brody opened the passenger door and Molly flopped across the seat. He loaded both bags on top of her, then slammed the door and rolled across the hood to the driver’s side. As he jumped behind the wheel, the motel room door opened. Leo staggered out, one hand looped around his pistol.

  Brody yanked the keys from his pocket and gunned the ignition. The car started like a champ again. He threw it into reverse, backed out of the space. Leo took a shot at the front tire and missed.

  Molly screamed, scrabbling at her seat belt. Brody didn’t wait for her to buckle up. He cranked the wheel and whipped the front of the car around. In the rearview, he saw Leo raise the gun to take another shot, then think better of it and rush toward his own car.

  “Go, Brody!” Molly yelled.

  “I’m going!”

  He jammed the transmission into drive, plugged his foot to the floor, and lurched out of the lot. An oncoming Jeep Cherokee swerved and missed them by a beat. Brakes hissed. Horns howled. Brody raced east on Biloxi, turned left on Main, and ripped toward the edge of town.