Shotgun Honey Presents: Locked and Loaded (Both Barrels Book 3)

by Owen Laukkanen

  Zipped up, sat on the cold tile. Smoked a cigarette in quick drags, let a tube of ash hang there until it fell on its own.

  I went to the Chinese food restaurant. Soon as I got a whiff of the grease, I realized I hadn’t eaten all day. The sleepy old woman working the counter blinked at me like customers were the last thing she expected.

  I ordered sweet and sour chicken. She said nothing, rang it up.

  I said, “When’s this place closing down? You know, like everything else up here.”

  She scowled, went back to the kitchen. Few minutes later, she handed me a styrofoam plate, pointed at the plastic utensils and napkins on a counter.

  “Are you a fucking mute or something?”

  I kept taking my phone out of my pocket, flipping it open. Five-thirty passed. Cleaned my plate. Felt half alive at best, a mass of food in my stomach.

  It occurred to me that I’d approached this all wrong. Maybe I was selling Sarah a product—this letter—and the product had a set value. Didn’t matter how much money she did or didn’t have, like anyone else, she didn’t want to get ripped off. Maybe her flat rejection of my proposal was the beginning of negotiations. Of course, she knew I would press her for more if I got the thousand right away, so she couldn’t just cave in.

  I was walking back when I noticed someone—big guy, maybe six-two, black t-shirt stretched by bulky chest and arms—following me at a distance. Kept catching his reflection in the glass. I didn’t turn around, accelerated my pace. My footsteps, his footsteps, echoing through the halls.

  At one point I doubled back, went in a square past China Palace again. He was closer now. No question he was following me. Food sloshed around in my stomach, nerves gnawed at my skin.

  Instead of going back to the parking garage, I hung a left toward an escalator that went to a hotel lobby. Walked down the steps and stopped in the middle of the lobby. Soft leather chairs, oriental rugs, people with convention tags hovering around the front desk. Figured he wouldn’t try anything in a place like this.

  He came right up to me, sported a cocky smile. “Milo, right?”

  “Sure.”

  “Got a message for you.”

  “Did you need to follow me to tell me the message? Couldn’t have just come up and said it to me?”

  “Back off, man. Leave Sarah alone.”

  “Or what? She’ll have—who are you?”

  “None of your concern,” he said.

  “You her brother?”

  Shook his head. Pursed his lips and sniffed. Some act like he was losing patience. “She didn’t send me. Just back off. If you know what’s good for you.”

  “Then what, a friend, cousin? Did she want you to rough me up or something, you couldn’t do it? Afraid it’ll taint your squeaky clean record?”

  Guy poked my chest with a finger. “You don’t want to see me again.”

  “Whatever.”

  He left through the revolving doors. I sat down in one of those cushy leather chairs, laughed, hand covering my mouth, for almost a whole minute.

  • • •

  Outside, I smoked in the fog. Could barely see ten feet in front of me. People emerged from the hotel’s revolving doors, fading the other way seconds later. Seemed comic or tragic or something.

  Sarah had shown how much was on the line. That she’d tell a friend or whoever to follow me, maybe push me around. Seemed almost absurd. She was afraid of Kyle finding out about the money. Thought she could scare me off with no real effort.

  I went back to my apartment, worked through my next step. This was different than John Ballard. With him, I’d been trying to create something out of nothing. Guy I saw on the street who I arbitrarily decided to rob. Sarah was an opportunity that I had to capitalize on. Question was how.

  • • •

  I didn’t sleep much that night. Kept waking at weird hours—young couple upstairs screaming at each other, drunk people next door laughing and stomping around.

  Fell back to sleep as the first rays of sun bled through the blinds. Woke up a couple of hours later, showered, combed my hair and put on a shirt with a collar. As close to respectable as I could get.

  Stopped by a gas station for coffee and fresh cigarettes. I sat on the curb and smoked a few. Coffee was scalding and had been sitting out for a few hours, but I drank it anyway. A headache crept in from lack of sleep and the roar of nearby traffic.

  I went to a stationery store and made copies of the letter. Put the original in an envelope with Kyle’s work address and sealed it.

  Found her office out in the suburbs without too much trouble and parked across the street. Hers was the only white BMW in the parking lot. I slipped a note under the windshield wiper. Your big friend is cute. Meet me at 5:00. Orange Ave Tavern.

  I had considered sneaking into her building, passing by her desk and leaving the copies. But that was too risky. Thought about sending her flowers. Kind of liked that one. I could picture her rolling her emerald eyes, dumping the flowers in the trash. But that would set me back at least fifty bucks and accomplish little.

  Settled on putting the copies in a manila envelope and leaving them at the front desk, saying they were her wedding photos (ha ha). The girl at reception didn’t question the bullshit story at all and was taking the envelope back to Mrs. Frisson as I left.

  I went to the Orange Avenue Tavern early. I killed one pitcher of beer quickly and nursed a second. I didn’t like the place. Bright and noisy with twenty TVs all blasting ESPN News from every possible angle. Bunch of shit on the walls—old-time bicycles, photos of high school softball teams. The more I drank the more everything annoyed me. I got an order of mozzarella sticks and devoured them.

  Sarah walked in at about four forty-five. With her husband and those same friends. They got a booth and she made a point not to look at me.

  My first instinct was to go over to her table and make trouble, but I thought better of that. Maybe it’s even what she wanted me to do—make a fool of myself with a public display, damage my credibility.

  I didn’t finish my beer. Smoked the whole drive back, lighting one cigarette with the previous one, swerving between lanes as I did so.

  I sat on the stoop of my apartment building. Few doors down, two guys made a quick drug deal. I wondered what it was for and how much.

  She had almost asked for it. Maybe she liked the drama. Maybe she wanted to drag it out, or maybe she wanted a divorce.

  But none of those options fit—if that was the case, why did she wait for me to make the first move? And why did she send her friend after me?

  I walked down the empty street, long shadows of sunset swallowing the parked cars. I reached a mailbox, opened the lid. I hesitated, then dropped in the envelope—the one with the originals inside and Kyle Frisson’s office address on the front.

  First thing I did when I got back to my apartment was find out how to look up divorce records on the county court’s web site.

  I’ve gone to that web site every day since then, looking for the name Frisson.

  Nothing yet.

  With A Little

  Bit of Luck

  Bill Baber

  I’d just had my favorite kind of sex: hard, fast, and just a bit on the rough side. It was with a burgundy-haired bitch with hard pointy tits that I’d picked up at a local dive.

  My dump of a motel in Florence, Arizona, was named the Mountain View. This was ironic, since the only view was of the state penitentiary just across the highway. When I pulled into town, I got chills after I saw the razor wire on top of the fence shine eerily in the light of a nearly full moon. I should have known that the sight of the guards in the towers cradling their rifles was nothing but a bad omen.

  Just about every town of any size in Arizona has a state pen. I’d never been inside Florence but it had a reputation as a mean old shithole. My best friend growing up got shanked in a yard fight just inside that wire fence. I’d done time in Picacho, fifty miles to the southwest, as well as a county hole
or two—all country clubs in comparison to Florence. As an added bonus, Florence was home to Arizona’s death row. It was no place I wanted to end up.

  I hadn’t planned on sticking around. I had valuable, ill-gotten cargo hidden in my ride and I needed to keep moving. But, shit, you can’t blame a man for having a thirst for a beer or two, especially when a hot and willing chick is added to the mix. Right? But I guess I should have just grabbed a six-pack like I originally planned and kept on going.

  She was sitting on a stool near the door at The River Bottom, a bar located in the last building along the highway on the north side of town. It was frequented by an ugly and volatile mix of prison guards, bikers, cowboys, and a few ex- cons thrown in for good measure. The juke box alternated between George Jones, Skynyrd and the Stones. It wouldn’t take much to light a fuse there and at any moment a spark could cause the place to explode.

  I bought her a beer. In the dim light and thick smoke I couldn’t see the fine lines around her eyes and mouth and the striking color of her hair. But, I could see the cute little nipples that pressed against her thin shirt. A small diamond glittered on the side of her right nostril.

  “This isn’t a good place to hang out.” I told her, ignoring the hard stares from the rednecks nearby.

  “Been in lots worse,” she said.

  She told me she was from L.A. Recently, she’d migrated to Tucson and got herself involved with a speed freak that had gotten her hooked and wanted her to do things she had just enough pride left not to. She said she had been clean for three months.

  “I’m looking for open roads. She said. “There aren’t any streets I want to walk back there.”

  I didn’t give a shit what her story was. I just wanted to fuck.

  Afterwards, I was resting on top of sheets soaked with sweat and sex. The mattress was as old and lumpy as a retired Tijuana whore. Hard tits was in the bathroom, “freshening up.” There were a couple of beers resting in a bucket of mostly melted ice on the beat up dresser, and I was considering reaching for one when that dumbass Braxton kicked in the door.

  Braxton Reams had always been a stupid little shit. He’d grown up with me and my crew in midtown Tucson. He always wanted to fit in; was always trying to be a tough guy. Mostly, what that got him was his ass kicked. I hadn’t seen him in a few years; he was even skinnier than usual, and he had the sunken checks and fucked up teeth of a meth head. He looked pathetic. But, with a stainless .45 pointed at me, he managed to look pretty damn tough. Good thing he was still dumb. If he had been tailing me, I thought, he would’ve known I wasn’t alone.

  “Get dressed,” he said. “You’re taking me to the money.”

  “What money?” I said.

  “Don’t bullshit Me.” he said. “The word is that you’re the guy who took down that jewelry store at Encantada.”

  He was right; I had gotten a boatload of jewels and a good chunk of cash. It had been an easy score: Encantada was an upscale mall up in the foothills, and Harry Noble’s was an independent jeweler that skimped on security. It had been a week before Christmas; all I had to do was dress up a bit and walk in carrying a couple of shopping bags. One of the two clerks that were working was at lunch and the old guy that was minding the store looked like he was going to shit when I put a gun in his face. After scooping up jewels—including a display full of Rolex’s and another of diamond tennis bracelets—I cleaned out the register and got lost in the crowd of holiday shoppers.

  I’d laid low for a month, and now I was headed to Vegas to piece the loot out to a standup guy I knew. Marvin would wash the cash and take the jewelry off my hands, leaving me with nearly three quarters of the take. Before that prick Braxton came along and complicated things, next on the agenda was supposed to be a Mexican beach and a life of sun, senoritas, siestas and cervezas until the money ran out.

  Walking up to the edge of the bed, he prodded me with the pistol. Just then, the girl with the burgundy hair silently eased open the bathroom door. There was something small and dark in her hand. With an amazing lack of hesitation, she shot Braxton in the head and his blood and brain matter oozed all over the already filthy sheets.

  In the end, all wanting to be a tough guy had gotten Braxton was killed.

  “Jesus Christ,” I mouthed to no one in particular. Then,

  “Let’s get the hell out of here.”

  I pried Braxton’s piece from his dead fingers on the way out the door.

  There was already a crowd gathering outside the motel and more than one of them was on a cell phone, alerting the police to the sound of a gunshot from upstairs. Since the next day was visiting day at the prison, the place was nearly full. I was driving an ‘89 Ford pickup stolen from a construction site at the north end of Tucson earlier in the day. No one was going to miss it until Monday, but now, the cops would have a description. I didn’t have time to look for another ride.

  Luckily, I remembered that an old cell mate, a Pima Indian by the name of Johnny Cueto, lived nearby on the Gila River Reservation. If I could remember how to find his double wide, which was located somewhere between Bapchule and Sakaton, I was sure he’d help.

  We headed west on a county road that crossed over I-10. It was a blustery January night. Dust and desert debris scurried across the road in front of us. It was chilly and I cranked up the heater. In the glow of oncoming headlights, I could read the excitement in my passenger’s dancing eyes.

  After coming to a crossroads where there was a convenience store and gas station, I thought we were close to Johnny’s. A mile or so further down the road, I saw his old Camaro in front of a place that still had lights on. I pulled the truck around the back where it wouldn’t be seen from the road. My knock was answered by a slender Indian girl in her early twenties. She was trying to cover acne scars with too much make up. She was at least fifteen years younger than Johnny. Across her neck were the scrolled letters of a tattoo with a heart at either end proclaiming that she was his property. Not for long I thought. Not unless my old pal had really changed.

  She glared at us for a moment without speaking. When I told her I was a friend of Johnny’s she looked at me like she didn’t believe it. Finally, she opened the door without taking her eyes off of me. She called to Johnny.

  He was a little drunk, and the smell of weed was thick in the trailer. When he saw me, he broke into a grin. Johnny was a big dude: six foot three or four and nearly three hundred pounds—none of it soft. He grabbed me off the ground and hugged me hard. The bones of my spine popped like small arms fire.

  He tossed me a beer from the fridge, not offering one to either of the women.

  “What the fuck man? It’s been a while, the hell are you doin’ here?”

  “I need wheels.” I said. “I’m in a bind.”

  Johnny knew what I meant. He’d done two different stretches for armed robbery. We used to talk all the time about how we never wanted to be locked up again.

  “Kalisha, give him your keys.”

  She hesitated and Johnny shot her a look.

  “Give him the fucking keys. Now.”

  She did, and scowled at me. She was one mean looking girl.

  “Don’t fuck it up,” she spat.

  After setting down my half-finished beer, Johnny and I hugged again. Before letting go, he slipped something hard and cold against my back.

  “Good luck man.” was all he said.

  Kalisha’s car was a newer silver Honda, perfectly nondescript, making it seem perfect for my needs. I drove the pick-up a mile or so further down the gravel road. The girl with the burgundy hair followed. There was a line of mesquite trees leading down into a wash. The jewels and cash were stashed behind the seat. I retrieved the bundle and stuffed it into my duffle, hoping she didn’t see. Then I pushed the truck down the incline into the trees.

  It wasn’t much past eleven and there was still quite a bit of traffic on the freeway, especially as we neared Phoenix. I wasn’t sure what I was going to do with her. I figured I’d leav
e her in Flagstaff—the sooner the better.

  Staying in the center lane, I was cruising just over the speed limit. I noticed a car closing fast behind me. The rear view filled with red and blue. I signaled and pulled to the shoulder. When the trooper walked up to the window, I could smell dust and after shave.

  “Good evening,” he said. “You have a tail light out. May I see your license and registration please?”

  The tags were current so I figured we might be okay. How the hell was I supposed to know Johnny’s little squeeze had a felony assault warrant?

  “Step out of the car sir, with your hands on top of your head.”

  Suddenly, that Mexican beach was mighty far away. I didn’t want to do another stretch but this looked bad. I didn’t know if there was any way out.

  He led me to the passenger side of the car. Suddenly, the freeway was devoid of traffic in both directions. It was very still. The trooper frisked me and found the gun I had taken from Braxton.He pulled his own, putting mine behind his back.

  “Don’t fucking move,” he said.

  I did as he said, watching, not knowing what the hell that unpredictable bitch might do.

  “You,” he said to her, “out of the car with your hands up where I can see them.”

  She opened the door and—just like that—blew away the side of his face. I guess I wasn’t surprised. This chick liked shooting people, especially in the head.

  Taking advantage of the lull in the traffic, I got out of there. The next exit was for Maricopa. I could take back roads all the way out to the west end of Phoenix. I didn’t know what would happen after that.

  I didn’t wonder for long. We hadn’t gone far when I heard a click that turned my blood cold. She had the gun pointed at me and in the dash lights I saw an evil smile on her face.

  “Let’s talk about that money and the jewels,” she said. “There was no way I was going to let Braxton share in the spoils of our little plan. Too bad things have to be this way; you seem like my kinda guy.”