by Lee Baldwin
My phone chimes, I’m getting a text. Somebody calling themselves nrrdgrrl. What nerd girl writes damn near blows me over.
nrrdgrrl: Stuka, where UR? wanna talk - Thar
Thinking to myself, now on top of everything else I’m having major temptation thrown at me. Is she legal? I text her back.
Stuka109: UR mom doesn’t want me talking 2U
nrrdgrrl: Need 2 tel U sth
Stuka109: ask me here
nrrdgrrl: negatory what’s your 20?
Stuka109: jam nite my place
nrrdgrrl: where?????
Stuka109: GPS coming
I send her the coordinates of my house. Does that make me an idiot?
nrrdgrrl: CU thx I am out.
I read back over the convo, the text interchange that took less than a minute from start to finish. And which could kick me down a road of no return. What the hell does she have in mind? There are probably two or three people would either kill me or throw me in jail for what I just did. Or possibly am about to do. Hormones, shut up. But then I remind myself, she’s not into men and seems sane. Whew.
The party tries to get going again but it’s running on three wheels, energy’s out of it, everybody wants to tell their view of the takedown and standoff, people who haven’t left are into talking, not playing. After midnight. Most folks in the house are sitting down, not jumping around and hollering, just a couple dudes picking at six-strings now. I’m on the back porch starting to clean up the barbecue when tires crunch up the dirt drive. Slim woman in black jeans and a leather jacket gets out of a little gold Mazda, starts for the front porch.
“Tharcia? Back here.”
She adjusts her aim and heads for me, walking quickly, black boots with pointy toes, but her posture tells me she’s carrying some weight. She stops just outside the circle of light from the porch. Her hair is down and she’s wearing shades. Shades at midnight, too cool, I first think, then I second think she’s not the type to act cool.
“Find it okay?” I ask.
“No prob.”
“Care for a beer?” She nods yes and I draw off a cup. When she takes a sip I see that there’s some discoloration on the side of her face.
“You hurt yourself?”
She takes a deep breath, looking down. After a second she pulls off the dark glasses takes a step closer and raises her face to the light. I see she’s got a mean shiner going, her eye’s swollen half-shut.
I am instantly ready for war. That little go-round with enforcer88 was nothing compared to what I’m up for now. I’m right in her face holding her elbows. She looks straight back at me. She’s not afraid.
“This is what your girlfriend is really like,” she says, meeting my eyes. A tear lashes down one cheek.
“Montana?” I am incredulous. “You call the cops?”
She makes a disgusted face. “Big N-O to that.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Doing it now. Got away from her is what.”
I think a minute looking into her face. Her expression so untroubled, given what’s just happened to her.
“Who have you told?”
“Nobody yet. Twyla. You. Rayne. Mom’s getting way weird lately. I hurt for her, something’s going on and she’s not talking.”
Knowing Montana as I do, or at least the way I did, I can well understand that she gets terribly caught up in herself sometimes.
“She ever hit you before?”
Tharcia laughs. “On my butt, when I was a little kid. Not for years now. But she has never been like this before. Ever. She is deep different.”
“Get you something to put on that,” I tell her. “Come inside.”
She follows in the back door. Lots of curious looks as we push through, the guys at her style, the ladies at her shiner. In the kitchen I grab a bowl of ice from the cooler, clean dishcloth, she follows up the stairs. Someone calls out, Clay you go bro. I ignore it. The bathroom up here I never use, bigger than the one downstairs and usually clean. I look at her face closely, touching gently around the bruise. She winces. I pack the cloth with ice and hold it to her eye, lift her hand so she holds it in place.
“So why’d you come here?” I ask, leaning against the counter.
“Something she won’t expect.”
“Any other reason?”
She shakes her head. Black eye and all, I’m taking in how she’s like Montana at that age, but with a different quality. She maintains her calm, no matter what.
“Funny,” she says out of nowhere, “at our place the other night I said to myself, you were the only person there who’s not broken.”
I look at her surprised. “No. You were.”
“I’m a mess,” she says. “You were the one.”
I’m grinning now. “You’re the healthy one. Want to fight about it?”
This gets half a smile. She takes a swig of her beer, holding the icepack to her face. Footsteps on the stairs. Dan, the kid with the bass is at the door.
“Clay we're taking off. Thanks man.” He catches sight of Tharcia, looking at her face in the mirror. “Whoa, what happened here?”
Tharcia keeps her back turned, glances at him in the mirror. “Little family riff, no big.”
“They have 911 for that ya know.”
“Dude, I’ll make a note of that,” she says.
“Hey Clay,” Dan goes on, “Rodrigo is passed out on your sofa.”
I lift my glass. “All hail Rodrigo. His lady split?”
Dan shrugs, no idea, heads back down the stairs.
“It was a bad idea for me to come here,” Tharcia says when Dan is out of earshot. “I’ve got to fix it up with Mom. But not until she’s cooled off. She gets enraged, she turns into someone strange. All I can do is wait. She didn’t mean it.”
Downstairs there is the racket of goodbyes, instrument cases bumping out the door, dishes clattering in the sink. One loud crash.
“Take your time,” I tell her. “I’ve got guests leaving. You need to be going yourself.” I head down the stairs to wrap up the night.
“I’m staying,” says a soft voice behind me.
“Leaving.”
“Staying.”
Women. She doesn’t know it yet, but I am in charge here. Totally. She’s leaving.
Chapter 6
Ride the Storm
I’M HUNG OVER this morning. So sue me. An occasional loud party is good for the soul. I’m sitting on the edge of the bed rubbing my face and trying to figure out where that funny sound is coming from. Somewhere inside the twisted up sheets and pillows must be my phone. Oh great. Montana.
“Gronk.”
“You sound hung over. You shouldn’t be drinking so much at your age.”
“Hey look who’s all full of sage advice. Gin girl.”
“You should be grateful, it makes me horny.”
“Sharpening a pencil makes you horny.”
“Ah shove it. Did my daughter call you last night?”
What to say what to say? Truth, I decide, is easier to keep track of than Dare.
“Yes. Actually she was here for a while. Had a major shiner. What exactly happened?”
“None a yer biz Bozo. What happens in my house stays in my house.”
Meanwhile I’m thinking I’ve got to warn her that Wolfe is wise to her lies. But then, she is not being that civil lately. Pluswhich, the way I’m being watched, the phone is not the place.
“A nurse friend of mine here looked her over. She wanted to file a report. Tharcia said no. You have one hell of a loyal girl there, you know that? She deserves better.”
“Stuff it Stuka. Don’t you lecture me on parenting. What I do with my daughter is none of your business.”
“Doesn’t seem like you, Montana. I never figured you for the battery type.”
“It wasn’t battery you moron I was trying to grab her keys and I slipped.”
“Sure Montana, whatever. But you’ll be talking out the other side of your face if she decides
to file a complaint on you. Child abuse is serious.”
“My Tharcia would never do that to me.”
“Funny how kids wake up as they mature. Later.”
I punch out asking myself, why would Montana call me, looking for her daughter? Unless she’s calling everybody in her phone. Serve her right, sweat the bitch a little. Then I discover I’m a bit worried. Wondering where Tharcia went when she left here last night.
So I’m finally into jeans and a sweatshirt and the big room smells kinda funky. I open the door wide and Bomber steps in past me like I’m the butler. Cat cracks me up. Absolutely no expression on a cat’s face, they say it all with body language. Couple cars still out there, which is typical. Now I see why the living room smells like something died. There’s a dude’s lying on the sofa. Fully dressed, leather jacket, boots and all. Gray beard sticking out. Two to one it’s Rodrigo.
Finally I get coffee made and I’m playing the Warbirds game on my PC. Going over and over the startup sequence for a V-12 Merlin aircraft engine. Memorizing it. Hark, the toilet just flushed upstairs, so I have two sleepovers. Who did I miss? Well there’s enough coffee.
I finally get this fighter plane off the runway, too sideways to survive in real life, and guess who wanders in? The party I was just speaking about with Montana. I put the game on pause.
“I thought you left.”
“I came back. Talked to your friend for a while. He’s interesting. Seems lonely but he’s used to it.”
“Lots of folks like that in these hills. It’s why they’re here. Coffee?”
She follows my head tilt to the pot on the counter. Pours herself a cup. Same clothes she had on last night but she’s done some makeup work. Her face looks a little powdery but it covers the bruise alright.
“We had agreed you were leaving, I know you remember.”
She smirks at me over her cup. “Yes Stuka, we did. And I followed that agreement to the last letter.”
It’s my turn to grin. “Crafty. You only think you know what’s up. And by the way mommie dearest is looking for you.”
“Took the batts out of my phone. She’ll be looking for a while.”
“So you’re a geek, too.”
“I do all right.”
I get up to refill my coffee, when I turn around, Bomber is in her lap.
“Maine Coon never does that,” I say.
“You’re joking, he slept with me.”
“Hasn’t slept with me for a while. Sometimes when it’s cold out.”
“Maybe you lost your aura.”
I look at her. Smart. Beautiful. Screwed up mom. Wonder how much of it did and didn’t rub off.
“Tell me something interesting,” she says, getting comfortable on the chair.
“About what?”
“Stuka’s undoubtedly sordid past.”
I squint one eye to look at her. “On an interest scale of 1 to 10, would you like a two, or maybe a nice six?”
“Give me the nines and tens.”
I think for a second about what I have to do that day. No lessons, no students, no need to drive till maybe later. Plus which I could use a little hair of the dog. From a top shelf I pull out a bottle of Glenmorangie single malt. Yah, purists, flame me, but I pour a generous glub-glub into my coffee. Usually better straight, for rolling over the tongue. I gesture with the bottle but she shakes her head no.
“Wait. I know,” she laughs, “when you got busted.”
I remember I had semi-foolishly been candid with her last time we had morning coffee. My life is noted for bragging stupidly to lovely women then paying big time.
“Okay, your call. That’s at least a niner on the famous Clay Disaster scale.” I take a sip of my laced coffee, lean back in my chair and think a sec.
“Okay this is going to bring you right up to date on little me and who the world thinks I am. For the moment.”
She nods with a bemused expression. Thinking about it takes me back, I can see the streets, the kind of Southern California morning it was. She’s sitting there with her coffee all calm with this expectant little grin.
“I hadn’t liked the idea, not at first. But I’d scouted the route, a ten-mile run through Claremont neighborhoods and up Mt. Baldy, lightly-traveled twisty stuff with a couple of long tunnels. All I had to do was make a 30-second lead on any cops, then pull a magic trick. I doubted any cops would be behind me though.
“Just as with piloting gliders, I assumed everything could go wrong, and thought carefully through each step. Assume cops are there. Assume there are cop choppers too. I’d have the advantage of driving the route many times, of taking in-car videos and studying them over and over. The advantage of being ready. Thanks to the tunnels, those cars and helicopters wouldn’t be a factor.”
Looking at Tharcia’s face it hits me. Last time I bragged to a woman like this it was her mom, who barged into the action and got me near arrested. Questioned for attempted murder. But what the bleep is wrong with me? Here, I’m showing off for this teener who is way too hot. Need to get her out of here.
“Anyway, getting a lead on the cars was easy, handling the choppers was easy. My car drives into the tunnel. My car drives out of the tunnel. My car crashes in spectacular fashion. The choppers miss a minor detail, don’t see I’d stopped in the tunnel for about four seconds. Long enough to pull a mountain bike from the trunk, yank off my mechanic’s coveralls and plop a cycling helmet on my head.”
“What’re y’all wearing?” Tharcia’s eyes all full of mischief as she pops my reverie.
I grin back at her. “Oh, a way cute thong, says Rupert the Friendly Lion on it. Nah, I had bike racer gear. Popular cycling area, bikes are always coming down that hill. Anyway the car takes off empty, veers over the side and crashes all fiery into a ravine. Simple matter of a handheld radio controller. I headed downhill on the bike, looking totally credible in shocking pink spandex, stupid helmet, swigging from a water bottle. The money’s in my fanny pack.
“So the police copter was totally focused on the car bouncing down the hill. Cops screaming up the road had no interest in me on the bike, they hurried up to the wreck. It was ninety minutes before they found the car had no driver.”
She’s leaning back grinning, makes a head gesture toward the bottle. I push it toward her and she helps herself. She’s no piker I’ll tell you that.
She takes a swallow of her laced coffee. “Single malt is more than just a breakfast drink, don’t you think?”
I grin back at her. “Oh it does wonders as a hand sanitizer. Great for that pesky sore throat too.”
“So you got away from the cops,” she prompts.
“Clean. And by the time the cop cars all stop at the wreck, I’m over the side and down a steep canyon, several miles away under trees. Stash of hiking clothes there. A small dry bag slung from bungee cord, attached high in a tree. The fanny pack goes in the bag, I cut it loose, and the lot shoots out of sight into branches 60 feet up.”
“What’s in the bag? Did you know how much you were carrying?”
I shrug. “Wasn’t very big. Fanny pack with the cash, probably a few hundred thousand. Someone else was supposed to pick it up later. I rode the bike farther down the riverbed, wiped it down and dismantled it, and walked out to a small restaurant, looking like any day hiker. Three dudes were supposed to come in, sit separately, and order Tsing Tao beer. It was our way of finding out who made it.”
“But what were you guys doing, was it a robbery?”
“Dope deal. But some complication made the handoff late. My job was to collect a small package. Something unexpected though. There was a gunfight.”
Now she looks serious. “You shoot anybody? You get shot at?”
“Well, I got away from the gunfight because of my research.”
“Research?” She smiles hearing ‘gunfight’ and ‘research’ go together.
“Yah, it was near a busy mall in Claremont. I had looked the neighborhood over and decided to pick up the drop on
a bike, not the car, because a car could get hemmed in too easy. There was a narrow fenced bridge leading into the mall garage, lots of people walking to their cars, cops couldn’t shoot in there. I rode through the mall and three blocks to my car.
“I was in the car, leisurely heading up Mountain Avenue. My tail was clean, no one should have made me. But then magically there were three cop cars and two choppers on me. Something fishy about that too. Like there was a tracker on the car. But my escape was not based on getting away, it was based on deception. In the end I got away by bicycle.”
“Lucky.”
“Luck has nothing to do with it, schweetheart.”
Tharcia’s smiling, eyes sparkling. Eyes so easy to fall into. I’ve seen it before, awakening someone’s attraction to a life of crime. It’s the power. Always, it’s the power to fool other people. The power to do and take what you want.
“I made it home anyway, back to my normal life. It was normal for exactly 41 hours, until the Hollister police came to take me away.”
My coffee is cold, empty. She’d finished hers and set the cup down. Bomber had wandered off. She lets out her breath with a kind of relieved sigh. “You got caught?” She sounds incredulous.
“That’s exactly the way I felt about it. I couldn’t have been traced, no bleeding way. Somebody tipped ‘em. And I know who.”
There’s a feeble groan from the sofa. I go to the pot and start more coffee. By the time Rodrigo gets approximately vertical, we’re at the kitchen table pushing eggs around our plates with sprouted wheat toast. Say one thing for her, she may be slim but an appetite she’s definitely got.
Rodrigo sits, scratching his beard, smiling and looking stupefied. She says good morning with a smile. “Me and Rodrigo are old buds, we talked about banjo picking last night.”
“Lunatic.”
Rodrigo, leaning over his coffee cup at the table, is taking small fast slips as if looking for the one that’ll save his life.