by Evelyn Glass
I hear the officers creepin’ toward the bathroom, no doubt spreading out with shotguns and Glocks.
Becky, thank fuckin’ Christ, doesn’t question me. Just as Officer Gomez is openin’ the bathroom door, Becky screams: “Don’t come in here! He’s got a gun to my head and he’ll kill me! He’ll kill me! Please! Please!”
“Wait,” I hear Officer Gomez mutter. And then, louder, “Chance, this isn’t smart. You know that.”
I climb up to the window, suckin’ in my belly, wishin’ for the first time in my life that I was one of those skinny skater guys. The wall where the pane used to be scrapes me, squeezing me, cutting into my arms, my side. Becky is standin’ underneath, arms open like she’s gonna catch me. I nod at her to move out of the way, and she does. Then, behind me, I hear the door fly open and officers fill the bathroom.
“He’s climbing out the fucking window!” a woman cries.
“Grab him!” Gomez roars. “Grab the bastard!”
I kick, wriggle, and just about manage to fall head-first into the snow as I feel a hand coil around my ankle. The hand holds tight, all the way until I’m hanging out the window, head in the snow, with some strong bastard holdin’ me up. I reach up and slam my fist down on the hand, twice, causin’ whoever owns it to yelp out in pain and let me go. Rollin’ over, I jump up straightaway and take Becky’s hand.
“Let’s fuckin’ go,” I say. “Follow me.”
Squeezin’ onto her hand tightly, I sprint with her toward the parking lot, feelin’ anxious like I never feel. It’s one thing when you’ve got some fellow hitters or a gangbanger on your tail. You know you can turn around and clip him if things get too wild. But when it’s the cops, that’s another thing altogether. I can’t shoot a cop. It’d cause a goddamn war. When I get to the parking lot, I see two police officers crowding around my car, walkie talkies in hand, one of ’em talkin’ into the walkie. He’s a tall ginger man with a crooked nose. He gestures to the other cop—a short, blonde-haired man with a pointed nose—and both of ’em look up and start scannin’ the area.
“Gonna have to steal a ride,” I mutter, leading Becky away from the motel, into an alleyway which leads to the takeout places and the supermarket. Heads ducked low, we move through the thick sheet of snow, leaving too many goddamn prints, jogging through the alleyway. Becky is panting beside me. Fear, exhaustion, I’m not sure. All I know is she’s gotta keep goin’ no matter what. We both have. Behind us, I hear Gomez roaring at his men, the men roaring back. Sooner or later, they’ll find the tracks.
We burst out onto the supermarket, which is one of those twenty-four-hour ones, its lights shining onto the snow-blanketed winter night. I scan the car park, my eyes settlin’ on a Ford which has barely been touched by the snow, which means whoever owns it just got into the store. And it’s in the corner of the car park, which is another bonus.
“This is somebody’s car,” Becky says as we approach it. “Can we really—”
I elbow it as I’ve elbowed dozens of car windows before, so that the glass shatters. Immediately, the car alarm starts off, screeching into the air. A few people walking to and from their cars turn to face us. I growl, “Get in, now.”
Becky climbs into the passenger seat. I’m already in the driver’s seat, fiddling with the wires. As soon as I connect the right wires, they sing for me and the car coughs into life, the engine making a sound like someone blowin’ into their hands against the cold. I reverse, skid, and bomb out of the carpark just in time to see a couple of police officers enter from the opposite side, walkies in hand. I see the moment they spot me, but I reckon the snow’s too thick for ’em to be able to read the plate.
For a while, I just cruise us through the city, tryin’ to get my bearings, tryin’ not to freak out that a mob place was just hit. Becky sits pressed against the glass on the opposite side, shivering. I reckon she’s never been in a situation like that. She definitely looks like a rookie, the way her wide, dark eyes are scanning the night. When I stop the car to change it, makin’ her get out, I’m reminded of how she was that first night when I got her into the shower, movin’ with her zombie movements. The next car I can afford to do a little more quietly, with a length of wire taken from Becky’s bra.
“Is this your idea of a date?” she says, a faint smile on her lips, as she removes her bra under her clothes.
When she hands it to me, I strip it, get to the wire, and open the car door. Startin’ it up, I crank the heatin’ on and once again begin cruising through the city. I’m not sure where to go, what to do. I’m not sure…and goddamn, I hate bein’ not sure. The whole point of bein’ who I am is that I’m always sure, I’ve always got a plan. But right now I feel lost.
“Can you take my cell from my pocket?” I ask Becky.
“Sure.”
She takes it, and then says, “Who do I call?”
“Nate,” I say. “He’s my fixer. He’s the one who told me you might be in the warehouse that night. Maybe he’ll have some goddamn idea about what we should do.”
She presses his name and then puts the cell on loudspeaker. It rings, rings, rings, as we cruise through the night.
“Try again,” I tell her, when he doesn’t answer.
She does so, and twice more, but the bastard ain’t answering. I guess it’s late, but even so, Nate is meant to be the guy who never sleeps, the guy in the chair who’s always ready to give me some intel. I stop the car in an alleyway between an apartment building and a clothes store. Someone in the apartment building has their window open. In the reflection, I can see a TV playin’ some action movie, someone passed out on their couch.
I turn to Becky. “I don’t know what to do,” I admit. “I don’t know what’s going on or where the fuck is safe. Anywhere could be safe and anywhere could be dangerous. This is a mess. I know one thing, at least. The police won’t put an APB out on us. The mob’ve got men in the force, and if Gomez and his merry band started makin’ moves in that way, the mob’d find out. So we know we’re up against a few cops, not all of ’em. But a few cops is all you need sometimes. I just…I don’t know what to do.”
Becky smiles at me, but it ain’t a smile-smile. It’s more like the smile you’d give to a big dog who’s lost its bite. I don’t like that one bit, but right now, she might not be far wrong. Fuckin’ mob place raided. Fuckin’ mob place. It’s bullshit.
She reaches across and places her hand on my face, stroking it. It feels damn good, gotta admit. “It’s a lot,” she says. “To process, I mean. To take in. Part of me is still back in the bathroom, getting ready to climb from the window. I can hardly believe we got away.”
I laugh gruffly. “It’s always the same,” I say. “Always the goddamn same. You get yourself neck-deep in blood and you’re always surprised when it washes off.”
She looks at me strangely, like she can’t decide if she wants to be scared of me or not. Then she looks down at the cell and begins fiddlin’ with it. I just sit back, staring at the window as the heater tries to fight away the condensation, as snow settles on the glass. I’m tryin’ to think of something to do, hoping for the cell to ring and Nate to speak up.
After a while, Becky says, “Wait, is today the third?”
“I dunno. Maybe. It was Christmas a couple weeks back, wasn’t it?”
Our Christmas was fuckin’ like wild animals before ordering in pizza from the front desk.
“Yes! I know where we should go, Chance. It’s perfect. We can blend in with the crowd…we can disappear, at least for the day, while we come up with a better plan.”
“Yeah, where’s that?”
“Coney Island!” she cries.
I snort, ’cause the idea is about the stupidest I’ve ever heard. “It’s goddamn snowed over. Last time I checked, Coney closes for the winter.”
“Not tomorrow,” Becky says. “It’s the Solstice Shakedown, when they hire special cleaners and maintenance people just for one day so people can use the machines. I was reading about it o
nline before…well, before all of this craziness started. It’s the first time they’re trying it tomorrow. Apparently, there are going to be loads of people there, I was reading—like, loads. And if you said Officer Gomez is working alone, it’s not like anybody is going to recognize us, is it?”
I shrug. “I gotta feelin’ you have another reason for wantin’ to go,” I say. “But everythin’ you said makes sense, so I ain’t gonna fight it. But first, we need to get some new clothes. Hold on.”
I take my cell, open the battery back, and take out my replacement credit card which sits next to the battery. Then I start the car and drive to another twenty-four-hour superstore, which stocks big fleecy hoodies and thick jeans and boots, pay for it all on the mob’s dime, and then return to the car. An hour later, Becky and I are sittin’ in the car, munching down on some sandwiches, dressed like Eskimos. The heating’s on full blast and my cheeks feel warm. Everythin’ feels warm.
For a few moments, even if everythin’ has gone fuckin’ crazy, I feel like a man who has finally found a home.
Then I push that feelin’ away ’cause it’s goddamn ridiculous.
Even if I am feelin’ closer to Becky, I need to remember that a man like me is never gonna have a home, not really. I’ll always just be a wanderer, cruisin’ through the night and searchin’ for somewhere to rest my head.
Chapter Fifteen
Becky
A huge sign billowing across the entrance archway reads Solstice Shakedown! in dark blue text. The snowfall stopped late last night, as Chance and I were sleeping in the car, my head resting on his shoulder, so that the maintenance people only had to clear it out and warm up the machines. I remember when I read the article that the organizer said he wasn’t sure if it was worth it, bringing everything out just for one special event, but as Chance and I walk through the entrance, I can see right away that it is. People from all over are here, so many that the crowd is thick, impenetrable in some places. People climb onto the Ferris Wheel, giggle as they head toward the Tunnel of Love, hand in hand, prod each other teasingly as they climb into the ghost train ride. Bumper carts and air rifles and cotton candy: all of it combining to make me feel like a little girl again, hand up in the air clutched in Mom’s, wishing the day would never end.
Chance takes my elbow and leads me to the edge of the crowd, near the railing which encloses the attractions, away from the rides where there are fewer people. After so long spent cooped up in the motel, it’s good to be outside. Not that being cooped up was necessarily a bad thing with Chance to keep me warm…But as I watch Chance, his predator’s eyes scanning the crowd, I see at once that he’s not comfortable. He looks out of his element; I get the sense that Chance is more of a lone wolf, the man outside the crowd, watching it but rarely entering it.
I make as though to cuddle into him, but he sort of turns away. Not in a mean way, but a silent way of telling me he’s not comfortable with that. He’s so frustrating. One second we’ll make kissing love in the shower, and the next he won’t even hold me.
We stand here in silence for a time, watching the crowd move by. It’s early, a tiny glint of sunlight shining through the crowds, and there are kids everywhere, running all over the place, squealing at their parents. I watch the kids, thinking about how I was sick over the toilet bowl, thinking about how I must be pregnant. There’s no other possibility. I haven’t had my period in six weeks. What else could it be? I watch the kids and I turn back to Chance and I reflect that the likelihood that Chance and I will ever take our child here, giggling and playing, is low. I can’t imagine Chance dropping his hitter persona and becoming a father. I swallow as that thought works its way through me, making me feel rotten.
“What’re you thinkin’ about?” Chance asks, hands in his pockets, never once taking his eyes from the crowd. Luckily there are so many people that this isn’t conspicuous.
“Nothing,” I say, not wanting to admit it. Though, I’ll have to tell him sooner or later, won’t I? I can’t hide it forever. He’ll want to know why I’m being sick all the time.
“Nothin’?” Chance mutters. “You’re over there chewing your cheek so loudly I can hear it.”
I blush. “I do not chew my cheek!” I protest, but now that he’s mentioned it, my cheek does hurt.
“Course not,” Chance says.
“I was thinking about my mom,” I say. “She used to bring me here all the time when I was a kid, every day during school holidays sometimes. It was when my dad was busy with his mob stuff, you know? A way to get me way, way out of that life and into this one, a way to bring me somewhere safe where she knew I’d have a good time and not have to see any of that business. Last night you said I might have another reason for wanting to come. Maybe this was it. I wanted to try and reclaim a little of my mom.”
“You don’t see her much?” Chance says, his eyes tracking a man with his hands in his green bomber jacket and a cigarette clutched between his teeth. It seems like he’s hardly listening to me, but when I don’t answer, he says, “Do you go to California to see her?”
“No,” I say. “I haven’t been down there yet. I—it’s silly.”
“What’s silly?” he asks.
“Nothing.”
He grunts out a half-laugh, half-snort. “Tell me, Becky.”
“It’s just that I keep thinking I can make dad better.” I talk quickly, aware that I’m revealing something that makes me feel very uncomfortable right now. “Even after he sold me to Julian, even after he shouted at me that I better still be a virgin, even after everything, I still think there’s some good left in him. He and my mom used to be really happy, Mom tells me. Before he started getting into gambling and drinking and he was just a regular old enforcer. Or maybe there isn’t such a thing as a regular old enforcer.”
“Maybe not,” Chance says. “What’d that look like? Most of ’em are fucked, Becky. And hitters are worse.”
I see that his gaze is following a young boy and his father, both of them laughing, the father leaning down to hand the boy some cotton candy. Chance watches them for a long time, and I’m sure there’s some hurt in his eyes. I know he isn’t the intimate type, but after spending almost two months with him, I’m getting to know his looks pretty well. And the expression he’s wearing now is something close to pain. Without stopping to think how he’ll react, I place my hand on his arm and give it a squeeze. He flinches as though ready to turn on me and go into hitman mode, but then he relaxes, hands buried in his pockets, eyes fixated on the crowd.
“What were you thinking about, just now?” I ask.
“Nothing,” he grunts.
“Chance!” I snap. “I want to be close to you, I want to be here for you, but how am I supposed to when you won’t tell me what’s going on in here?” I tap his chest with my finger.
“I never asked you to figure out what’s goin’ on in there.”
“Now you’re just being a jerk.” I give his arm another squeeze. “You were looking at that boy and his dad and you were thinking about something. I saw it in your face.”
“Saw it in my face?” Chance laughs darkly. “Nobody sees shit in my face, Becky. That’s part of my job. I’ve gotta be unreadable.”
“Well, I saw it, and I think you’re skirting the question because you know I’m right.”
All of Chance’s looks are smaller versions of other men’s. When he smiles, it’s a slight, shadowed smile instead of a wide, cheesy grin. So when the corner of his lip twitches downward, I know that he’s acknowledging what I’m saying. I know that I’m right. I lean close to him, whispering in his ear. Maybe I’m coming on a bit strong, but he’s the father of my child and I know very little about him. It’s not good enough.
“After all we’ve shared, you can tell me, Chance,” I whisper. “After all we’ve done, you don’t have to be nervous around me.”
He shrugs, and then says quietly, “I don’t know what good talkin’ about shit does, Becky. Never saw the good in it.”
“Humor me,” I say. “Just think of it as doing me a favor.”
He mutters something I don’t properly hear—it sounds like, women, but I’m not sure—and then says, “You’re a goddamn psychopath, wantin’ to dig deep into a man who’s empty inside. For no damn reason.”
There is a damn reason, I want to say. I’m pregnant with your child and you’re still half a stranger to me, even if your body is well known to me now.
“Fine, I’ll tell you what I was thinkin’,” he says. “I was lookin’ at that kid and his dad and I was thinkin’ about the time Boss took me into a room with an enforcer called Irish Mick who Boss said might adopt me, ’cause my mom was gone and my dad was dead. I was young then so I was pretty damned excited about it. Stupid little kid. I even put on a fancy shirt, the one Dad used to make me wear to church, and went in there all ready to be accepted by a new daddy.” He shakes his head. “This Irish Mick knelt down, took my face in his hands like I was a fuckin’ prize dog or somethin’, and said, I don’t like the look in his eyes. He looks like trouble. And that was that. See? Not very exciting, eh?”