Lola on Fire

by Rio Youers

  * * *

  She dragged Bruno’s corpse into one of the warehouses, propped him in a corner, then used his phone to take a photo. The flash overexposed the shot and made the hole above Bruno’s left eyebrow appear quite small. It also drew the last hint of color from his face and made his teeth shine. It was a grim arrangement, and told a certain truth: that Bruno Rossi had died in pain.

  She sent it to Jimmy.

  Lola pocketed the phone. It would be full of contacts, messages, web-browsing history, perhaps strategies. Information was power. She ripped the sleeve from Bruno’s suit jacket and used it to bandage her bleeding calf. Her DNA was all over the scene—Lola’s first public appearance since 1993, and hopefully her last.

  She limped back to her car.

  The first sirens howled as she pulled away.

  * * *

  She was on a bus to Austin three hours later, drowsy with painkillers. She’d left behind the frumpy sweaters, the cheap jewelry, the librarian’s job. The small bag on the rack above her seat—the same bag she’d used when she left Ethan and the kids—contained a pair of jeans, a first-aid kit, her Baby Eagle with half a box of ammo, $216 in cash, and the faux-leather folder that Grandpa Bear had given her in 1992.

  One identity remaining. One life. One more chance.

  The bus moved southwest. Lola listened to the thrum of the wheels on the highway. A strange comfort. She slept beneath a shell-thin layer and dreamed angrily.

  A ninety-minute layover in Dallas. This gave her the opportunity to change the dressing on her calf. She then limped to the nearest drugstore and bought hydrogen peroxide and a pair of scissors.

  Later that morning, at a dusty motel in Austin, Lola burned Jennifer Ames’s documents in the bathroom sink.

  Dead. Done.

  She cut and dyed her hair, and became Margaret Ward.

  * * *

  All but $118 of Jennifer Ames’s money disappeared from her Chase Bank account. It was filtered through various businesses both at home and overseas, and gradually integrated (minus a five percent fee) into Margaret Ward’s Bank of America account.

  There was no link from Jennifer Ames to Margaret Ward, thanks to Grandpa Bear’s money-laundering contact.

  He’d thought of everything. Good old Grandpa Bear.

  Lola didn’t stay in Austin. It didn’t feel like a good fit for Margaret. She moved to Oklahoma, then Colorado, and finally settled in Lone Arrow, Nebraska.

  The years passed. She worked as a waitress, a farmhand, a builder’s laborer, a store clerk. She watched her children grow via the marvel of social media. Neither Brody nor Molly were active Facebookers, but their occasional posts opened bittersweet windows into their lives. Lola missed them so much.

  There were men. Two of them. She used the first for sex, an arrangement that suited them both. He was younger than her, as fit as a thoroughbred. It was easy breaking it off. The second relationship was deeper. Christian Mellor. A fifty-three-year-old English teacher. Smart, generous, and patient.

  Lola recalled what Grandpa Bear had said to her—his final lesson: Don’t put down roots, or make anything that you can’t leave behind.

  She cut Christian loose when she started to fall in love.

  This hurt. Not as much as losing Vince, or breaking away from Ethan and the kids, but enough to question the point of it all. Was her life merely an exercise in survival? Was she allowed nothing to nurture and live for? Thoughts like these chipped at her soul. She felt haunted by her own ghost.

  Owlfeather Farm—purchased eight years and two months into Margaret Ward’s existence—was her rebellion against the emptiness, and against everything that had her in chains. Yes, it was another example of putting down roots, but they weren’t human roots. Nothing could be scarred by her having to run. Besides, it was a prime location, with good visibility all around. It would be her stronghold.

  If she needed it to be.

  Fifty-seven acres, bordered on either side by farmland, to the north by a small but dense patch of forest, and to the south by Big Crow Road. Lola farmed beans and alfalfa. She had chickens, goats, cows, and horses. It was small, and lean in terms of profit, but it was hers, and she threw herself into it completely.

  The days turned into weeks, the weeks into months. Margaret Ward’s skin grew comfortable. She loved her work, played pinochle with the old folks every Thursday, and sometimes shot skeet with Butch Morgan. Her favorite thing, though, was to ride Poe, her horse, across her acreage, with the sun melting in the west—to inhale the endless sky and feel the wind ripple her hair. In those moments, she never felt freer, and it was possible to believe.

  She never let her guard down, though.

  Nine and a half years since she’d pulled a trigger in anger.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Despite everything they had learned, Brody slept deeply that first night at Renée’s. Molly had the spare room. He took the sofa. It was long and soft and unfathomably comfortable. He sank into plush pillows, and though his mind reeled with information—everything from his mother’s real name to her working for Jimmy Latzo—his exhaustion won out. A great gray cloud consumed him and he sank helplessly.

  “How long do we stay here?” Molly asked the following morning. She had woken him with a mug of freshly ground coffee—the kind he’d been fantasizing about. It smelled rich and delicious and it lifted him, wide-eyed, into a sitting position. He took the mug, sipped from it, savored the taste.

  “We need more information,” he said. It wasn’t an answer, but it concealed what he was thinking: that he planned to continue without her.

  He showered for a long time and it was the greatest shower of his life. Pink steam ghosted around him, scented with lilac. He breathed it into his lungs and exhaled, like a man who has been trapped in a mine, stepping into fresh air for the first time in weeks. His skin prickled with cleanliness. Afterward, he used one of Renée’s razors to shave. He had lost weight, there were shadowy crescents beneath his eyes, but he looked more like himself than he had in a long time.

  His thoughts were still a knife-fight of words and images, though—glimpses of his mother’s past and his own potential future. But out of the clash of everything in his head, he kept returning to two things. The first was how Jimmy Latzo had been taken down in 1993, his empire reduced to ashes. The second was Renée saying that she thought Lola was some kind of superhero.

  Not everything in his mind clashed. Some of the pieces clicked. They had synergy.

  For better or worse, Brody sensed the end was in sight.

  * * *

  Later that day, he went to Bryan Park with Molly and Renée. He pushed Renée’s chair at an easy pace. Molly walked beside them, thumping along on her crutches. There were plenty of people around, walking through the rich fall scenery, running the loop, throwing footballs, and shooting hoops. The trees were alive with color, shimmering in the afternoon light. It was, by any measure, a picture-book October scene, but Brody was too distracted to enjoy it. He had taken to looking regularly over his shoulder.

  “You can relax, Brody,” Renée said. She’d noticed his agitation, even though he was behind her. “They’re not going to jump us.”

  His arms were rigid, his hands clamped around the push handles. He wondered if Renée could feel the tension through the chair. “You still think we were followed here?”

  “I think you should assume as much,” Renée replied after a moment. “And proceed accordingly.”

  “But we were so careful.”

  “You’re dealing with professionals.”

  They strolled for another minute or so, then Brody looked over his shoulder again. Molly did the same.

  “Anybody look suspicious to you?” she asked.

  Renée was right; Jimmy worked with professionals, people who could blend in, make themselves invisible. The woman walking her dog, her phone welded to one ear, might be talking directly to Jimmy, or perhaps to another contact elsewhere in the park. The target is approachin
g the basketball courts, heading your way. Maybe one of the elderly men playing dominoes was Jimmy’s uncle, still on the payroll. The guy taking pictures of trees might also be taking pictures of Brody. Or how about the hipster chick with the skateboard, the dude taking shots from the free-throw line, the crane-like woman doing tai chi?

  “Everybody looks suspicious,” he said.

  There were fewer people farther along the path, and Renée took that opportunity to share what Brody already suspected: that Lola had singlehandedly dismantled Jimmy’s empire back in 1993. She’d killed sixteen men and seven attack dogs, and had fled the scene with Jimmy’s mansion engulfed in flames. Intent on revenge, Jimmy had spent the last twenty-plus years hunting Lola, tracking down and questioning—in many cases torturing—anybody who knew her.

  “And I guess,” Molly said, “that’s how Karl Janko ended up in a barrel.”

  “You guess right,” Renée said.

  Now Jimmy was after Brody, and no, this wasn’t a coincidence. It had to be a setup. Brody contemplated this, putting together an unlikely puzzle in his mind, but some of the pieces didn’t fit.

  “How would he know?” he asked. They had paused to watch two squirrels chase one another around the trunk of an elm tree. Both Molly and Renée giggled at their antics, then Molly turned to Brody and frowned.

  “Say what?”

  “I put myself in this position,” Brody replied. “Jimmy didn’t make me rob a convenience store. He didn’t make me drop my wallet at the scene. So how can I have been set up when it was my actions that started this whole thing?”

  “I wondered that, too,” Renée said. “Everything with Blair’s stepmom—the diamonds, the so-called murder, that was a trap, but the convenience store wasn’t.”

  “Right,” Brody said. “It doesn’t make sense.”

  “It does, though,” Molly said. “Because it was a trap, only one that you made and walked into yourself. You put yourself on a plate for them, Brody.”

  The squirrels had clambered into the higher branches, out of sight. Molly walked on. Brody was lost in thought for a few seconds—lost in space, Molly always said—then Renée snapped, “Giddyap!” and he blinked hard, pushed on.

  “What do you mean?” he asked, drawing level with Molly.

  “They were watching you,” Molly said, and shrugged as if this were obvious. “How many times did you survey Buddy’s Convenience Store before you finally robbed it?”

  “Three, four times, maybe,” Brody replied. “I wanted to make sure I had all my ducks in a row.”

  “I’m glad you put some thought into your stupidity,” Molly said, and Renée snorted laughter, then clapped a hand over her mouth. “Meanwhile, this girl Blair—who clearly works for Jimmy—saw what you were planning. I mean, it’s obvious, right? So she just sat in the wings, waiting for you to make your move.”

  Brody winced. Yeah, that logic held.

  “Okay,” he said, seizing something else. “But that doesn’t explain . . .”

  He was going to say, that doesn’t explain the wallet, but the words faded as a memory swam to the front of his mind. Atlantic City, New Jersey, three years ago. He’d gone for a boys’ weekend with his buddy Kieran. They’d been drinking in a bar on the boardwalk. It was a good time. No luck with the ladies, but they hadn’t landed in any trouble, either. As they left for the night, stepping out onto the boardwalk, some snot-faced kid ran into Kieran, caromed off him, and kept running. No excuse me. No apology. It was only when they got back to their hotel that Kieran noticed his phone was missing. He placed his hand on his empty front pocket, looked back in the direction of the boardwalk, and said, “That little motherfucker—”

  “Pickpocketed me,” Brody finished out loud. He stopped pushing Renée, and his eyes glazed with the same abashed, slightly hurt expression that Kieran’s had on that night in Atlantic City.

  “What?” Molly asked.

  “Blair,” Brody said distantly. He remembered reeling from Buddy’s Convenience Store with the replica gun in one hand, the bag of cash in the other, and bumping into Blair. Or, more accurately, she—appearing from nowhere—had bumped into him. Brody had reached to steady her and they did a clumsy kind of two-step before she pulled away from him. “That bitch pickpocketed me.”

  He explained, again, how it went down to Molly and Renée. They agreed that Blair lifting his wallet from his jacket pocket was the most likely explanation. Really, the only explanation. Along with many other emotions, Brody felt a splash of vindication. He’d been carrying the weight of dropping his wallet at the scene of the robbery all this time. Apparently he hadn’t been that stupid.

  They started moving again and Molly said, “It was a setup, Brody. Jimmy is using you to find Mom.”

  Brody nodded. This knowledge offered small relief. Okay, so he was not the primary target, but he was still in Jimmy’s crosshairs, and very much in danger. They both were.

  “This explains why the stepmother’s murder didn’t make the news. Jimmy staged the whole thing.” Brody recalled the blood—so much blood—and the body, sprawled with one arm behind her head and a huge knife implanted in her chest. “He did a very convincing job. Him and Blair.”

  “From what I know of Jimmy,” Renée said, “I’d say Blair is masterminding this whole thing.”

  Brody flashed back to their meeting at Rocky T’s. Punky, colorful Blair, with a cool cunning in her eyes and a sharpness he knew could slice to the bone. Blair, with her Valentino Garavani boots and $1,700 jacket, and hadn’t he wondered then what a spoiled brat from the Laurels was doing alone at Buddy’s at 4:55 in the morning?

  Jesus, he’d been played like a hillbilly’s banjo.

  “It’s all so elaborate, though,” he said. He’d fallen behind Molly again in his deep thought, and put on a burst of speed to catch up. “If they think I have information, why not jump us? Why not beat it out of me?”

  “Do you, though?” Renée asked.

  “Do I what?”

  “Have information,” Renée replied. “Specifically, do you know where your mother is?”

  “No,” Brody answered curtly. “Of course I don’t.”

  “And Jimmy knows that. So beating and torturing you is a waste of time. But if you’re scared enough, and if you have nowhere else to run, maybe you’ll look for her.”

  “Maybe,” Brody said.

  “You have a better chance of tracking her down than he does,” Renée said. “At least, that’s what he’s counting on.”

  “Right,” Molly agreed. “And all Jimmy has to do is follow.”

  Brody scratched the back of his head. It was a desperate strategy, yes, but more than twenty years of searching for Lola Bear, drawing blanks, had no doubt made Jimmy a desperate man.

  “That whole thing in Bayonet,” he said. “Getting jumped by Jimmy’s boys, us getting away, them giving chase . . . that was just an act to . . . to scare us—get us to run in the right direction?”

  “I don’t know for sure, but . . .” The inflection in Renée’s voice suggested she did know for sure, and now so did Brody.

  A kid blazed across their path to catch an overthrown pass. He leaped theatrically, tipped the football, and it sprang away from him. His buddies jeered. Elsewhere, parents scanned their phones while their toddlers let loose in the playground, and a squat, bearded dude wrestled his French bulldog playfully.

  Clouds had gathered in the north. They had bruised edges. Rain, for sure. Somewhere out there, Jimmy Latzo licked his wounds and hated, scouring the Lower 48 for a woman named Lola Bear.

  “All of this,” Brody said. “The pain, the fear, the running. It’s all because of our mom.”

  “They’re watching you,” Renée said, gesturing not at the wide autumn sprawl of Bryan Park, but at the northern clouds, portending some doom. “The question is, how do you want to play it?”

  * * *

  “We need to talk about the elephant in the room,” Brody said to Renée later that evening. “Or rathe
r, the elephant in Spring Grove Cemetery.”

  Renée frowned and wheeled a little closer to Brody. It was just the two of them. Molly—complaining of hip pain after their walk in the park—had dosed up on Motrin and retired to bed. This presented the perfect opportunity to talk to Renée one-on-one, and to learn some harder, necessary truths.

  “Did Jimmy Latzo kill my father?”

  For all the hardship Brody had endured recently, none of it compared to the bleakest moment of his life—a sliver of time that he relived often, and never more often than on that day with Renée.

  It happened on the evening of February 26, 2019, when a dour-faced police officer capsized his and Molly’s life with two short, knife-like sentences. The first was, “I’d like you to steel yourselves.” Steel. What a fabulous choice of word, Brody thought, and wondered if this cop wrote crime novels in his spare time. Brody nodded but didn’t steel himself. He perched on the arm of the sofa and looked at the police officer as the second sentence was delivered: “I’m afraid your father is dead.” There. Precise terminology. No vagueness. Dead—the most unambiguous word in the English language. Brody responded pathetically, by saying, “No, he isn’t,” as if “dead” could be disputed, after all, and he’d pointed at the latest edition of Rolling Stone, still open on the coffee table where his father had been reading it the night before.

  In the weeks and months that followed, Molly asked questions like, Why? and What now? Brody’s inner dialogue was one of denial, not that his father was dead—Brody had identified the body via photograph; Dad’s face was covered on one side, but there was no mistaking his patchy beard, his Greek nose—but rather the manner of his death. Ethan Ellis had been a man of boundless love, encouragement, and optimism. Jesus, he’d held on to a biker jacket from his teens because he intended to one day buy the Harley to go with it.

  He would never take his own life. Never.

  That Jimmy had killed him had been on Brody’s mind since learning about his mother’s connection to the mobster, but the notion was so terrible that he kept pushing it away, focusing on other things. It was barbed, though, and would snag him. It would draw blood. He knew Molly had considered it, too. She hadn’t spoken to him about it yet, because to face it would be to accept it, but it was only a matter of time.