Dick

by Scott Hildreth

  With my eyes fixed on the road ahead, I explained my plan. “We’re coming up on Highway 1 in a minute, and we’ve got to hit a ninety-degree turn. We should lose him there. I’ll take it at 140, he’ll have to slow to about seventy.”

  “I found Drake,” she announced.

  My heart was racing, I was sweating profusely, and the thought of going back to prison was becoming more of a reality with each car we almost collided with. “Call him and tell him to open his garage door and have an empty stall for me. Tell him we’re in the Ferrari and we’re running from the cops,” I barked.

  Slumped in her seat with the phone in her lap, she shifted her eyes to me. “Only if you go out on another date.”

  We were flying down a highway with a marked speed limit of 65, and traveling at more than twice the speed of traffic. Objects a quarter of a mile ahead of us were reached in roughly five seconds. To describe the event as intense would be the understatement of the century.

  Yet Jess seemed to care less.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Another date. Yes or no?”

  “God damn it. Call Drake. We’re coming up on highway 1!” I demanded.

  “Yes or no?”

  You crazy bitch.

  “Yes!”

  She pressed her finger against the keypad and lifted the phone to her ear “Is this Drake?”

  “No. He’s busy. Yeah. I’m Jess. No. He’s right beside me but he can’t talk. No. Just listen for a sec. We’re in the red Ferrari, and we’re runnin’ from the cops. We need to hide in your garage.”

  “About…”

  She leaned toward the center of the car and looked at the speedometer. “Looks like about 146 right now. Dick says you need to open the garage door and make a spot for him.”

  “When will we be there?” she asked.

  “About two minutes. Maybe less, I don’t know,” I responded.

  “How far away is it?” she asked.

  I swerved into the right lane, checked the rearview mirror, and prepared to take the exit-ramp at 140 miles per hour. “A mile from this exit. Hold on!”

  “Go open the door. We’ll be there in thirty seconds,” she said. “And be ready to close it for us. Don’t hang up.”

  With white knuckles and an overactive heart, I steered into the curve. The car hugged the road as we took the corner, drifting slightly, but it wasn’t unmanageable. I downshifted two gears, held the throttle to the floor, and merged onto the next highway. A quick check of the mirror showed the police car taking the corner much faster than he probably should have.

  “Cop just wrecked!” Jess shouted.

  Thank God.

  “We’re taking the next exit,” I exclaimed. “Hold on again.”

  “Two cops behind us,” Jess said. She wagged her finger toward the windshield. “And there’s one on the right at the side of the road.”

  Fuck.

  “We’re going to act like we’re going past this exit, and then I’m gonna take it at the last second. Grab my pistol. It’s under my shirt.”

  She didn’t hesitate. As if it were an everyday occurrence, she lifted my shirt, pulled the pistol from the waist of my pants, and held it in her hand.

  Our exit was fast approaching.

  Fifteen seconds.

  Two cars were behind us, and I was stretching the distance slightly. The cop car ahead was speeding into traffic in anticipation of us catching up with him.

  “Hold onto it. If we wreck, hand me that fucker, get out, and throw your hands up in the air. You can claim I kidnapped you, I don’t give a fuck. But just so you know, they’re not arresting me.”

  I expected her to gasp. Scream. Tell me no. Go ballistic and start babbling incoherently. She did none of those things.

  “Okay,” she said calmly. “But I’m not telling ‘em that. We’re in this together. I’m the one that told you to go fast.”

  Interesting…

  “We’re taking this exit, and it’s gonna be a bitch,” I assured her. “Grab ahold of something.”

  I gripped the wheel tight, bracing myself for what I was sure to be a crash.

  With two cops behind us half a mile, and one slightly ahead and on the right, I got as close to the exit as I could, holding the middle lane as if we were heading for the open road. At the last instant, I touched the brakes, fell behind him, and swerved through three lanes toward the exit on the far right.

  The car slowed considerably from the force of the ninety-degree turn.

  I downshifted three times, pushed the throttle to the floor, and screamed as we took the exit at a speed well in excess of what was safe.

  “Fuuuuuucccckkkkkkk!” I cried out as the rear of the car hopped up and down, skipping across the pavement like the rocks I used to skip across the pond as a kid.

  The car fishtailed a little, and I slowed slightly. I somehow recovered, and hit the gas again. By the grace of God, we made it through the curve without wrecking. The cop, on the other hand, shot well past the exit.

  Jess fumbled for the phone. After finding it, she held it to her ear. “Still there? Yeah. No. One of them wrecked. Yeah. We just got off on 35th. Okay. Okay. I’ll tell him.”

  “Drake’s at the door waiting.”

  I had plenty to worry about. My focus was – and had to remain – the road, driving, and what obstacles were well ahead of us. I couldn’t help but admire Jess’ calm demeanor and acceptance of everything that was going on.

  I slowed to roughly 60 miles per hour, took a narrow left, and downshifted four times. After pegging the throttle and tapping the paddle shifter a few times, we screeched into Drake’s neighborhood. A few seconds later, and we were in his driveway. I checked over my shoulder. Jess did the same.

  I pulled the car into the garage, let out a long sigh, and turned to face Jess. As Drake powered the garage door down, Jess grinned her ear-to-ear smile.

  “What?” I asked.

  “That was crazy.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Sure as fuck was.”

  The driver’s door flew open.

  Drake stood outside the door with a half-eaten hot dog in his hand.

  He was in his mid-thirties, but acted and appeared to be just shy of fifty. He was of average height and average weight, but his hair made him seem much older. The shoulder-length strands of filth were brown with streaks of grey, and his long goatee was solid white. He wore the same thing every time I saw him, regardless of whether he was at home, a club, or eating at one of the Vietnamese soup kitchens he liked to frequent.

  A robe and matching pajama pants. Plaid was the choice of the day.

  Everything he did had a price attached to it. It didn’t matter what how simple or how difficult the task, he simply did nothing for free. He was one of the last people I wanted to see, but his house was the only place I felt I could safely reach without wrecking the car or being arrested.

  “How’s it hangin’, Dick?”

  I stepped out of the car and nodded. “Low, as always. Appreciate this.”

  He brushed his long greying hair behind his ears and peered over the top of the car. “God damn, Dick. Where’d you get this one?”

  I waved my finger back and forth between them. “Jess, this is Drake. Drake, Jess.”

  Dressed in her work clothes from the previous night, Jess walked around the front of the car, pushed the pistol into the waist of her shorts, and examined his attire. Her eyes fell to the hot dog. Drake poked the wiener in his mouth and held it between his teeth.

  “Nice to meet you.” He extended his hand.

  She seemed to weigh the risk. After a long pause, she shook his hand.

  He eye-fucked her for a moment, took a bite of the hot dog, then turned to face me. “I’ll keep the Ferrari well-hidden for ya, and you can take the ‘Vette I just bought, but I need you to do something for me.”

  What a surprise.

  My heart was still racing a hundred miles an hour, and I wasn’t in the mood for Drake’s demands – but I wasn’t i
n a position to negotiate. “What’s that?”

  He clutched the lapels of his robe, pulled it closed, and grinned. He shook the hotdog at me as he spoke. “Drop something off. But she’s staying here ‘till you get back.”

  “Excuse me?” Jess snapped.

  He turned toward Jess for an instant. “You’re staying here ‘till he gets back.”

  Jess’ eyes shot to me. I shrugged and cleared my throat. “Where?”

  “Chinatown.”

  Fuck.

  “Who?”

  “What’s it matter?” he asked. “You owe me.”

  “Who?”

  “Duc.”

  “Duc? Like The Duc?”

  He nodded.

  Fuck.

  I tried to act like it didn’t matter. It mattered. A lot. I wondered how convincing I looked. “One delivery? That’s it?”

  He poked the remaining hot dog in his mouth, chewed it, and responded before swallowing. “One drop off, and a pick up. An exchange, of sorts.”

  He ran his fingers through his greasy hair while he finished chewing the wiener. His eyes told me what his mouth had yet to say. There was a reason he hadn’t done this deal yet; I was sure of it.

  I kept my business out of Chinatown for a reason. “In and out deal, huh?”

  He returned a smug grin. “In and out.”

  “He ready now?”

  “As ready as he’s gonna get.”

  I looked at Jess and did my best to apologize without apologizing. “We’ll go out this weekend.”

  She returned a shitty glare.

  I shifted my eyes to Drake. “Grab the keys. And when did you get a ‘Vette?”

  “Same time I got this package. Two days ago,” he said. “Be right back.”

  He sauntered to the door and went inside the house, leaving Jess and I alone in the garage. The fact he had the package for two days and had yet to deliver it made the little job much less appealing.

  “I’ve got to stay here with the hotdog guy? And what was that entire running from the cops shit about? Entrepreneur, my ass,” she hissed.

  I raised my hands in an effort to calm her. “I’ve just got to drop something off for him and bring something back. It’s just how Drake is. When I get back, we’ll take the ‘Vette and be gone. Just hang here with him for an hour. I’ll be in and out. You can play slot machines. It’ll be fun.”

  “Slot machines?”

  I pulled out my wallet and grabbed five $100 bills and handed them to her. “Yeah. He’s got a little casino in there. You’ll have fun.”

  She counted the money. “You’ll be back in an hour?”

  “One hour. Maybe less.”

  “And then you’ll take me to my car?”

  “As soon as I get back.”

  She let out a sigh. “You owe me. Big time.”

  After the way she handled the little run-in with the law, I didn’t disagree.

  SEVEN

  Jess

  “HOW long have you known ol’ Dick?” Drake asked.

  I pushed my hand into my shorts and pinched the $500 Dick gave me between my fingers. “I just met him.”

  I was more attracted to Dick after the police chase. A bad boy who talked a long line of shit – but couldn’t back it up – was annoying. Dick, on the other hand, was the real deal. Police chases, guns, Ferraris, using rich friend’s houses for hideouts, and now a mysterious delivery to Chinatown?

  Dick may have been a dick and unwilling to commit, but he was exactly what I desired in a man.

  I was going to have a difficult time forgetting the Dicks.

  Drake opened the refrigerator and pulled out a package of what appeared to be bologna. “Just met him a few minutes ago, or just met him recently?”

  “On Monday.”

  He held the package of lunchmeat at arm’s length. “Bologna?”

  “No, thank you.”

  “Monday, huh?”

  “Yep.”

  “What do you think?” He rolled up a piece of bologna and poked half of it into his mouth.

  “About what?”

  He chewed the bologna, swallowed it, and gazed at the other half as if it wasn’t at all what he expected it to be. He unrolled it, stared at it for a moment, and turned toward me.

  I had no idea what he wanted. He alternated glances between me and the remaining lunchmeat several times. Eventually, I shrugged. It was all I could think to do.

  He walked to the other side of the kitchen, sniffed the bologna, and shook his head. He turned to face me. “Dick.”

  It took me a minute to realize he was responding to the question I had asked earlier.

  “Oh. He’s fun.”

  He tossed the uneaten half of the bologna in the trash. He stared down at the package he was holding for some time, and after a lengthy mental struggle, tossed it in the trash. A trip back to the refrigerator produced a package of cheese, and the same process continued.

  He rolled a piece of cheese into a tube, ate half of it, and nodded his head as if it provided the satisfaction he was hoping to get from the bologna.

  He offered me the cheese. “Cheese?”

  “No, thank you.”

  He ate the other half of the cheese slice and closed the refrigerator door. “Follow me.”

  I did as he said and followed him through a very contemporary living room that was decorated with green leather furniture, chrome and glass end tables, and a large matching coffee table. Abstract art hung from the walls and random sculptures were placed about.

  It seemed like something I would expect to see in the home of a big Hollywood producer, but not in Austin, Texas. Not even in the ritzy Mount Bonnell neighborhood we were in.

  We walked down a long hallway, past a few rooms, and into what was obviously his casino. Two blackjack tables, a craps table, and a few dozen slot machines filled the large room.

  He sat down at a slot machine. “Fun, huh? Suppose that’s a matter of perception.”

  The way he responded or commented on a subject several minutes after we discussed it was confusing. I decided to keep to myself, and hoped Dick wasn’t gone for very long.

  He reached into the pocket of his robe, removed the package of cheese, and placed it beside the slot machine. He then pulled out a large bundle of $100 bills, and poked several in the machine. “Gamble?”

  I had gambled before, but it wasn’t something I could afford to do. As much as I needed to keep the $500 Dick gave me for food, clothes, and other necessities, I wanted to try my luck at gambling even more.

  I glanced around the room. “Can I?”

  “Long as you’ve got money.”

  “What happens if I win?”

  He glared at me.

  Assuming he’d pay me if I won – and that I insulted him by asking – I pulled one of the $100 bills from my pocket, fed it into the machine, and began playing.

  To describe the morning as surreal seemed so cliché, but I didn’t know what else to call it. Being chased by the cops in a Ferrari, ending up in Mount Bonnell amidst $5,000,000 homes, and watching a greasy-haired guy in a robe eat rotten bologna only to end up in his personal casino watching him eat slice after slice of cheese was nothing short of bizarre.

  I pushed the button on the machine and watched as all the little characters were falling into place on the screen. Drake peeled another slice of the cheese from the block, pulled his phone from his pocket, and nibbled on the cheese as he answered.

  I pinched myself.

  “Dick. You on your way? Whoa. Hold on. Slow down.” He stood up, grabbed another slice of cheese, and began to pace the floor. “No, make sure it gets to Duc. I don’t give a damn. No. Duc. And when you get to the car, count the money. There should be a million. No more and damned sure no less. Oh, and make sure your fingerprints aren’t on that case. Well, I didn’t think about it. Alright.”

  He put the phone in his pajama pants pocket, pulled his robe closed, and sat down. I may have been a dumb waitress, but it was pretty ea
sy to see that this guy was a rich fucking weirdo, and Dick was no entrepreneur. Nervously, I continued to play the machine.

  I had no idea what the premise of the machine was, but there were five rows of characters and each row was three characters high. I played for almost an hour, and watched as my balance went down to $60, back up to $120, and steadily continued to drop.

  After telling myself I’d stop when it got to $50, I pushed the button, and three matching tombstones came up. Each one spun in circles, and the machine congratulated me for making it to the bonus round.

  Fuck yes.

  Excited and hoping to win my $100 back, I glanced at Drake. He had moved over to another machine, and half the cheese was gone. I pushed the button and won $124. I pushed it again and won $27.

  By the time I was done with my 13 spins, my balance was $623.57.

  I pressed the cash out button and waited for the receipt.

  “So what do I do if I’m ready to quit playing?”

  “Give me the ticket.”

  I waked over to him and handed him the ticket. He glanced at it, reached into his pocket, and counted out $630.

  “I don’t have any ones, just $100’s,” I explained.

  He shrugged and pressed the button on his machine. “Don’t worry about it.

  I shoved the money in my pocket.

  I had pre-breakfast and post-breakfast sex, rode in a Ferrari, was chased by the cops, I got to hold a real gun, and I’d just won $630 at crazy lunchmeat man’s house.

  Best. Day. Ever.

  A familiar voice caused me to turn around.

  “There’s something in the kitchen for you,” Dick said.

  Thank God you’re back.

  “My man Dick,” Drake stood up and grabbed the cheese. “Everything go slick?”

  “Suppose so,” Dick said with a nod. He tossed his head toward the door. “C’mon, Jess. We’re leaving.”

  “Not gonna stick around and talk?” Drake asked as he approached Dick.

  “No. I’ve got to get her to work.”

  The remaining cheese went up for offer. “Cheese?”

  “No. I don’t want your fucking cheese. Or a hotdog. Or bologna. I want to get the fuck out of here, get her to work, and try and forget cops and gooks.”

  I stepped to Dick’s side.

  “Did Duc rove you rong time?” Drake asked jokingly.