by R. P. Dahlke
Our little conga line slowed as we approached a hospital complex, and Pearlie’s face was once again a disappointed pout. “Looks like it’s a sick friend after all. Do you think he’s going for the parking lot?”
I watched as the Mad Dog passed the parking lot, and the Escalade turned at the block.
“The Escalade just turned left,” Pearlie said. “That’s good, right? It means he’s not following Mad Dog after all.”
“Maybe. But with the Escalade gone, he’ll see us. Pull over and let a couple of cars pass.” I was relieved we no longer had to worry about any competition tailing Mad Dog.
Mad Dog approached the intersection and sailed through, but Pearlie, seeing a yellow light, slammed on her brakes.
“It’s not red, Pearlie, punch it, or we’ll lose him.”
She grasped the wheel tightly, touched the accelerator, and set us in the middle of the intersection stuck behind another car.
Pearlie hit the brakes and threw up her hands. “Now look what you made me do! If a cop comes along, I’m gonna get a ticket and—”
That’s when I saw the Escalade barreling down on us from a side street.
I reached out and yanked the wheel to the right, jammed my foot down on top of Pearlie’s, and shoved it over onto the gas pedal. The Mustang skidded into oncoming traffic, narrowly missing another car. The oncoming driver swerved out of our way, and then leaned on his horn. Pearlie slapped at me for the wheel, and I leaned away from her punches. Luckily, her arms were shorter than mine.
Through gritted teeth, she declared me certifiable. “Well? Don’t you have anything to say for yourself?”
I’d been quietly assessing our situation, and it wasn’t looking pretty. I didn’t want to frighten Pearlie, but it looked like the marshal had been right. We were going to be in trouble if we continued to follow Mad Dog.
“I’m sorry, Pearlie, but the marshal was right. We’re in over our heads. Turn around and let’s go home.”
“Not a chance! We’re here now and—”
“Pearlie, we almost got T-boned back there by the white Escalade.”
“What? I didn’t see nothin’ but that crazy maneuver you just pulled.”
“That’s because you’re so intent on following Mad Dog that you didn’t see him coming.”
“And who insisted we run a red light?” She pulled down the rearview mirror to pat her long blonde hair into submission.
“Pearlie, let’s not argue about this. The point is, if he’d hit us, we’d be in the hospital. We need to call the marshal and tell him what just happened.”
She squeaked. “Look! He’s still ahead of us.”
“Are you listening to me?”
“I hear you,” she said, breathing in deeply through her mouth and blowing it out of her nose. “I didn’t come this far to turn it over to some damn federal agent.”
“But Pearlie—”
“Open the zipper of my purse. I lifted Granny’s pistol, and if you will recall, I’m a crack shot, so sit back and enjoy the ride, or I can leave you on the side of the road.”
Pearlie was a different woman since she had defended herself from rape and a certain death by shooting the man we believed killed Burdell Smith. But the result was a sort of recklessness that could yet mean the death of us. And I wasn’t looking forward to another encounter with the driver of the Escalade, at least not without backup.
She looked at me. “Well? Times a’wastin’, Cuz, pick one.”
“Pearlie, be reasonable. Let me call Marshal Balthrop.”
She looked at me and grinned. “You got a cell in your panties?”
“Oh yeah, you threw them out somewhere before Fresno.”
Anxious not to lose him again, she looked like her nose was almost painted to the windshield. “And I ain’t stoppin’ for you to find a pay phone.”
These days, pay phones were becoming impossible to find since every person in America carried a cell … well, except us, of course.
“Alright, but if that Escalade shows up again…”
“Let me worry about those guys,” she said patting the bulk in her purse. “Oh look, he’s turning left.”
Pearlie kept our standoff distance two cars back while I watched for the Escalade.
We followed Mad Dog until he parked, this time next to a nursing home.
Pearlie drove past his truck and sped around the block again for another pass. “A convalescent hospital? After all we been through, I was looking forward to it being a woman so I could bust his chops.”
I pointed her to a parking space. “We can watch from here.”
She pulled into the parking space, picked up her bag, and opened the car door. “Since I’m the only one who doesn’t mind hurting his feelings, you can wait here till I come back.”
I got out and followed. “Pearlie, you don’t know what you’re doing. Maybe he is visiting a sick friend. You confront him now and you lose whatever chance you had for a relationship.”
She slowed, but just when I thought I’d made a dent in her irrational reasoning, she picked up speed again. “I think that ship done sailed.”
“Pearlie,” I said, giving up. “I’m not going in there with you.”
“Suit yourself. I’ll be out in a couple minutes—one way or the other.”
I watched her square her shoulders and hike to the entrance of the nursing home. Less than five minutes later, she was back. “Did you see his truck leave?”
“It was there when I walked past.”
She started up the car. “He must’ve spotted us and slipped out a back door. Screw him, I’m not wastin’ another drop of gas on this guy.”
Relieved, I said, “Fine, fine. Let’s go home.”
“Good,” she said, and pulled out on to the street.
That’s when I felt my head snap back, and the violent impact as another vehicle slammed into the driver’s side of the Mustang. Just before the airbag exploded in my face and forced most of the air out of my lungs, I got a glimpse of a Cadillac emblem on the back of a big white Escalade. Its tires caught on the pavement and burned rubber as it tore off down the street.
Catching my breath again, I pushed my way out from under the airbag, and asked Pearlie if she was hurt.
“No, but I’m furious to think some asshole clipped me and ran off like that.”
“It was the Escalade. We’re lucky he didn’t stop to finish us off.”
“Finish us off?” she said, rubbing her chest. It would be bruised tomorrow. “Then what was this, a love-tap?” she snarled and pushed aside the deflating airbag, then pulled out her pistol. “I see that asshole again and I’m gonna drill his hide.”
I pushed the pistol down, gently took it away, and stuck it back into the bag. “Don’t let anyone see you’ve got a weapon, or we’ll end up on the wrong side of the law, again. I’ll go call the police and report this as a hit-and-run.”
Pearlie asked, “You gonna tell them who hit us?”
I hesitated, remembering Jim Balthrop’s warnings. The bullet we’d just dodged was meant to put us out of commission and love-tap or not, Mad Dog may be in more trouble. “I don’t think that will do our cause much good. Besides, with the car wrecked, we’re out of commission.”
She nodded, glumly agreeing.
I assessed the damage to the front fender, then went into the nursing home, where I called the police and made another call to Marshal Balthrop. I had to hold the phone away from my ear as I was getting blasted with an earful of “…irresponsible, wild, thoughtless, rash, careless, and out of control.” At least he didn’t threaten to have me arrested.
The police and EMTs and an insurance claims person from the rental company came. They examined us and the car, asked questions, and took notes. And by the time the federal agent sent by Marshal Balthrop rolled up, we’d been gifted with two folding chairs and water, courtesy of the nursing home staff.
Pearlie’s adrenaline had worn off, and now she was shaking so badly, water was dancing
out of her cup.
The insurance claims adjuster and police, satisfied that we’d experienced a hit-and-run, took our information and ordered a tow truck and a replacement rental.
We gave our statement to the federal marshal, repeating how this was only a girl thing—a perfectly innocent mission to discover if Pearlie’s boyfriend was cheating. Pearlie coyly batted her eyelashes and added a genuine tear. The marshal grimaced, uncomfortable and fidgety to be gone, and with assurances that we would go home as soon as we got a new rental car, he left.
With everyone gone, we sat in our folding chairs and watched the tow truck arrive, winch up the red Mustang onto a flatbed, and drive away.
Pearlie sighed. “I sure am gonna miss that car.”
I nodded, watched traffic, listened to birdsong, stared at fluffy clouds in the sky, anything to keep me from thinking about a white Escalade and why someone would ram us in order to keep us from tailing Mad Dog. Whoever it was, it wasn’t the feds and the more I thought about it, the more I was worried for Mad Dog.
Two cars rolled to a stop. A young man hopped out of a faded maroon Taurus, handed Pearlie a clipboard with a flagged piece of paper to sign, gave her a set of keys, then got into the waiting car and left.
Pearlie stood with the keys in her hand and tsked. “I asked for red. That ain’t even red.”
I urged her to forget about it and get in.
The inside wasn’t much better. The upholstery was stained and cigarette burned and the windows were dusty.
“I’ll never rent a car from this company again.”
“I think the message may be that they don’t want you to, either. Get in.”
She pointed at a truck passing the nursing home. “There’s Mad Dog’s truck,”
“How can you tell?”
“It’s got that broken left taillight, remember? Well, well, this must be kismet.”
“Pearlie, I’m worried…”
“He ain’t looking for a maroon Taurus, now is he?”
She was right. We had to catch up to him, warn him about the Escalade. “Okay, but keep an eye out for the Escalade.”
She squinted at the afternoon sun glinting off Mad Dog’s rear window, juked the gas pedal, and took off after him.
<><><><><>
At least this time, we didn’t have far to go. Mad Dog pulled into a spot at a city park and got out. Pearlie, irritated that there wasn’t one single space left for her, circled the block looking for a parking spot.
From between the trees, I watched him stride across the lawn stride over to a picnic bench and speak to the man sitting alone.
Pearlie rounded another corner, snorting her disgust at the crowded park. “Is it a holiday or something? All these people and no place to park.”
“Oh, crap. It’s September sixteenth, Mexican Independence Day, and half the Mexican American population is out celebrating.”
When we were back to the spot where we’d started, I saw a car pull out of a parking space and motioned her to take it.
“But he might see us.”
“I don’t think that’s going to matter,” I said watching Mad Dog, legs spread, gesturing to the man.
Pearlie shut off the engine and leaned over to look to where I was pointing. The man wore a ball cap and a lightweight jacket and he appeared to be calmly observing Mad Dog’s behavior as fitting to his nickname. As Mad Dog became more agitated, the man got up off the picnic bench and stood, hands fisted by his side, looking up at Mad Dog as if challenging him to throw the first punch.
When Mad Dog seized the other guy by the front of his jacket, I said, “Uh-oh, I think Mad Dog might be trying to—whoa!”
The shorter guy slammed a fist into Mad Dog’s gut. Mad Dog jackknifed to his knees.
Pearlie gasped, threw open the driver’s door, and sprinted for the two men. Drawing her granny’s pistol out of her purse, she yelled, “You! Stop right there!”
I got out and raced after her, hoping she wasn’t going to shoot, not in this crowded park.
The man took one look at her and calmly walked away.
Pearlie yelled, “Stop or I’ll shoot!”
He looked over his shoulder at my cousin’s double-handed stance, and took off running. He was favoring, I noted, his left side, probably cursing his bad luck—yep, another Bains woman with a gun had him in her sights. I almost hoped she’d shoot him. The bastard! This had to be Arthur’s killer, certainly the one I shot when he broke into our house. He lurched and hobbled all over the place, probably hoping to avoid a direct hit in the back.
I caught up to Pearlie and put my hand on her gun arm. “Not here. Not with all these families. She lowered the gun, cursed, and turned back to where Mad Dog lay crumpled and moaning on the grass. Pearlie put a hand on his shoulder. “Mad Dog? What…?”
He put up a bloody hand. He hadn’t been gut-punched, he’d been knifed.
I made a beeline for the nearest family with a cell phone and called 9-1-1.
Chapter Nineteen:
Pearlie stood staring out of the darkened window in the surgery waiting room while Caleb and Marshal Jim Balthrop thumbed the pages of Fish and Game. We all hoped to hear that Mad Dog would survive the surgery after he’d been knifed.
Using Caleb’s cell phone, I finished a call to my dad, reassuring him and Aunt Mae that Pearlie and I were safe.
“No, we’ve been here two hours already and still haven’t heard anything. His wife? I suppose,” I said, looking at Pearlie. “We haven’t seen or heard from her. I’ll call you the minute we get word of his condition. Thanks, Dad, I love you too.”
Pearlie sighed and flopped into a chair across from Caleb and the marshal. “When Mad Dog comes out of surgery and can talk again, he’s sure to have an explanation.”
Marshal Balthrop and Caleb nodded and went back to their magazines.
I sat down next to Pearlie and took her smaller hand in mine.
“He’s going to make it, you’ll see.”
“He said he did it for us, but it don’t look like that to the marshal, does it? Mad Dog wouldn’t go and grab that guy’s shirt for nothing, now would he? I just wish he had told me what he was up to before he passed out.”
Caleb looked up at Pearlie. “Don’t fret about this too much, Pearlie. We’ll get the answers as soon as he can talk.”
“And then y’all are gonna arrest him, aren’t you?”
“I never said that, and neither did Jim, did you, Jim?”
The marshal kept his head down and turned another page. “We’ll see.”
Pearlie snorted. “Anything to get Nancy out from under a murder charge, right?”
Jim Balthrop sighed, closed his magazine, and got up. “I’m going for a walk. If the doc shows up, call me on my cell.”
Pearlie put her head in her hands and groaned. “He said he did it for us. Nobody’s ever done anything for me. Not anything that got them knifed, anyways.”
“It probably wasn’t Mad Dog’s intent to get knifed either, but that’s what happens when you don’t keep a healthy distance from killers. He never gave you a name, or said anything else about this guy?”
“No,” she answered, and turned away to cradle her arms.
I turned to the door and saw an attractive redhead. Late forties, in a flowered dress with one of those cropped sweaters that girls half her age wore. Her thick, curly red hair was loosely piled into a topknot with chopsticks. Without the killer strap-on platforms, I calculated five-five. When she came into the room I noted what might’ve been striking cheekbones if she’d lose about twenty pounds, and there were some serious bags under her eyes. Lack of sleep or too many cocktails—or none of my business.
She noticed my evaluation and proudly lifted her dimpled chin, took the chair recently vacated by the marshal, and crossed her legs, giving Caleb a view of heavy thighs.
Caleb looked up from his magazine, blinked at the redhead, then lifted an eyebrow. His gesture said, another dangerous redhead?
I smil
ed warmly at the shared memory, and mouthed the words, I hope not. The last one was disguised as a Modesto City police officer. She had everyone convinced; that is, until I discovered the tiny flaw in her story that turned most of the police department on its ear.
Ten minutes later, Jim Balthrop walked back into the room. His glance flickered across to the redhead, and seeing there were no vacant chairs, leaned against a wall, arms folded.
A doctor in scrubs walked into the room. “Family for Robert Schwartz?”
We all stood up. So did the redhead.
Pearlie looked around Caleb and asked, “Who’re you?”
The redhead smirked. “Unless there’re two Robert Schwartzes in surgery, I’m his wife, Jinx Schwartz.”
Pearlie, too shocked to speak, stared at the redhead.
The doctor said, “Next of kin only. Mrs. Schwartz, in the hallway, please?”
Jim Balthrop put up a hand. “Just a minute, doc. I’m a federal marshal here on a case Mr. Schwartz is part of, and I need to know his condition.”
The doctor rubbed a hand across his face and gave up. “Okay by me. Mr. Schwartz’s condition is serious to critical. He’s been transferred to ICU and won’t be available to talk to anyone until maybe sometime tomorrow afternoon, if he lives.”
Pearlie let out a sob. “Can I see him?”
The doctor pointed to a spot between the two women. “Whichever one of you is the current Mrs. Schwartz can see him, but only for a minute.”
The redhead smiled at the doctor, narrowed her eyes at Pearlie, and smirked. “Whatever he told you about me isn’t true, and he’s still my husband.” Then she swished out of the room and followed the doctor.
Pearlie flopped into her chair.
Caleb leaned over and whispered in my ear, “Eau de booze.”
I whispered back, “Mad Dog said she’s had some practice.”
Jim sniffed at the air. “Got my vote on that one. And that house in Merced you asked about, Lalla? It belongs to Mrs. Jinx Schwartz.”
Feeling sorry for my cousin, I’d finally asked Jim about the house. Now I got to watch Pearlie’s wheels turn as she tried out different scenarios as to why Mad Dog was visiting his estranged wife.