“You know that good cop/bad cop routine they pull in all those stupid police shows on TV?” He tapped the bat against his palm and stepped in front of the girl. “Well, guess what—you get only the bad cop today.”
She looked up at him. “What do you want?”
“Tell me where your stash is.”
“I don’t got a stash.”
“Wrong answer.”
He swung the bat hard against the girl’s left shin. The bone cracked like dried wood beneath the blow, leaving splintered pieces of bone jutting out of her brown flesh. She let out another terrible howl of pain.
“It hurts, doesn’t it?” Blake leaned in close to the girl’s sweating face. “I know, because my wife used the same bat against the side of my head. See the bandages where the bitch hit me?”
“Jess should’ve killed your punk ass,” Passion replied in a barely audible voice.
“You still got one shin left, you ugly dyke.” He placed the bat against Passion’s right shin. “You want to dance again, or not? Tell me where your stash is.”
“Please, don’t.”
“Wrong answer.” He pulled the bat in preparation for another swing.
“I’ll tell you … I’ll tell you. Under the kitchen sink … the garbage disposal is fake … the shit’s in there.”
“See, that wasn’t so bad.” He patted the side of her face. “Now don’t pass out on me. I may want to play some more.”
Taking the bat with him, Blake rushed from the living room into the small kitchen. He had to hurry. At any moment, Passion’s girlfriend could show up. Stopping before the double sink, he located the switch to the disposal and flicked it. Nothing happened. Reaching into the drain hole, he felt around with his fingers finding nothing. He decided to check the engine housing under the sink. Opening the cabinet doors, he removed several bottles of cleaner to study the unit. Some of these dealers are real smart in hiding their stashes, he thought to himself. I doubt Passion’s one of them.
He reached up and pushed against the iron casing of the disposal engine. The unit shifted. He twisted again and it dropped. Inside, he found two plastic bags of pure coke. Removing the stash, he also discovered two wads of bills wrapped in plastic in the bottom of the hollow engine housing. Blake thumbed through the cash and guessed the amount at about fifteen thousand. Things were starting to turn for the better.
He popped open a coke bag and snorted a line. The blow burned in his nose and coursed through his body. He stuffed both drug bags and money in the pockets of his duster knowing time was running out and he needed to leave. Picking up the bat, he returned to the front room.
“You still with me, baby?” he asked. The girl’s head hung limp to the side with eyes closed. Blood ran from the compound break of her shin. “Damn, girl, I thought you were tougher than this.” He felt for a pulse to see if she had died of shock. She was still alive. “I told you I was coming back to play some more.”
He walked back into the kitchen and retrieved a bottle of ammonia cleaner he saw under the sink. Returning to the bound girl, he passed the open bottle under her nose. She quickly regained consciousness.
“Don’t hurt me anymore,” she said in a weak voice.
“I got your stash, girl. The coke is primo, by the way. You always had good shit,” Blake replied, gripped the girl by the chin, and turned her face up to look at his. “Now tell me where I can find the keys to your bike and I’m out of here.”
“Not the bike,” she pleaded with tears running down her face. “Don’t take my baby.”
He looked down at her broken leg. “I don’t think you’re going to be riding for a while.”
“If I give you the keys, you’ll leave?” she asked and coughed.
“I promise.”
“On the hook by the door leading to the garage.”
He released her chin and stepped back.
“One last thing before I go. I need a little batting practice for when I run into my bitch wife again.” He pulled back the bat as if preparing to swing a home run. “Batter up!”
“Motherfuck—”
The bat hit the girl on the side of the head with a loud thud. The impact sent a jolting vibration up his hands and arms. He swung again and again until nothing was recognizable of what was once Passion’s skull and face. He stepped back for a second to admire his handiwork.
“A preview of what’s going to happen to you, Jess,” he said aloud to the corpse in the room.
It was time to get out of the house before someone discovered the murder. He needed distance from the crime. Finding the bathroom, he turned on the sink and washed the blood, bone, and brain matter from the aluminum bat. Next, he did the same from his face and the front of his duster. He was leaving behind a very messy murder and knew he didn’t clean up all the evidence. So be it. By the time the Chicago homicide detectives started to piece everything together, he would be long gone and in Oklahoma.
He slid the bat back into the hole in the lining of his duster and grabbed the Harley keys hanging by the door leading into the garage. Descending the steps to the garage floor, he studied the Harley Night Train. The brand new bike had a black paint job and shiny chrome, making it an evil-looking ride. No wonder Passion loved it so much.
Blake slid his leg over the saddle seat and turned on the ignition. He rose up and kicked down on the start pedal. The metallic monster rumbled into life with a low throb of the idling engine. A thrill went through his body as he applied the throttle. The pipes roared from the power of the 96 V-Twin. Dismounting, Blake yanked up the garage door, letting in the light of day, and returned to the idling bike. He climbed back on and noticed a leather sunglass case attached to the center of the handle bars. He removed a pair of men’s Oakley sunglasses as black as the paint on the bike.
After sliding on the dark glasses and checking his look in the mirror, he let out a low whistle. The shades fit perfectly and became the crowning touch to his new look. He was Blake Lobato no more. Completely garbed in black with shades and bike to match, he had become a dark Angel of Death. He reached into his pocket, pulled out the bag of coke, and snorted another line. His new ride idled between his legs with the low-throated rumble of a monstrous creature.
A long road to Oklahoma stretched before him, and the police would put out an APB for his arrest soon. He didn’t care. They wouldn’t stop him. He was on a one-way ride to Hell knowing in his soul he would see Jess one more time before he went down in flames.
“The Angel of Death is coming for you, baby,” he said to no one but himself.
Popping the clutch, the bike roared out of the garage and onto the streets that would eventually lead to Oklahoma.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Jessica took a deep calming breath of the cool evening air. Nervousness fluttered in her stomach from the anticipation of meeting Dale Sutton again. This time he would be off duty, and she didn’t have Megan. Though she disliked leaving her daughter behind, she felt good about her in Nelda’s care. Megan didn’t seem to mind, either. She just smiled when Mommy left and returned to coloring in her Bible coloring book.
Leaving the Camaro, Jessica crossed the gravel parking lot toward the front door of Roxie’s Roadhouse. Several cars and trucks already lined the parking lot, and the sounds of muted music came from inside. Jessica checked her watch: 8:38. The party starts early at Roxie’s, she realized. As always, she was running late. Like a nervous schoolgirl, she couldn’t decide on what to wear since most her clothes were left in Chicago. Nelda came to the rescue, providing a nice retro-looking blouse to go with her Levi’s denims. Not too tight or low-cut, it still highlighted her figure in all the right places.
“Never show too much the first time,” Nelda commented after Jessica tried the top on. “Always leave them wanting more.”
Before entering the front door, she checked her blonde hair tied back into a loose ponytail. Another life was opening up for her in Oklahoma, one very different from the nightmare of her marriage. She wanted
desperately to put the terrible memories of Blake behind her, to start anew and discard the years of physical abuse, like a shabby old coat. She opened the door and stepped through.
The noise was the first thing to hit her. Though the bar was not full and some tables were empty, the patrons made enough noise for a crowd twice its size. Amidst the smoky lights of the small karaoke stage, a pretty middle-aged brunette woman held a microphone and sang Patsy Cline over the sounds of customers talking among themselves. Jessica glanced over to the bar. Collin worked behind the counter popping the lids off beer bottles. He looked up with his dark piercing eyes in her direction. She attempted a weak smile and wave. His only response was a slight nod before going back to serving up the beer.
“Oh, hey, there you are, Jess,” Roxie called out, pushing her way expertly around the customers and tables while holding a serving tray in one hand. “The sheriff’s been waiting for you.”
“I know,” Jessica replied back. “I’m late.”
“He’s over at the corner table with Uncle Johnny.” She nodded in the direction. “Do you see him?”
“Yes.”
Roxie brushed past her and went to the bar to pick up more beer bottles. Dressed in a black tank top and blue jean shorts so tight they appeared painted on, the dark-haired beauty had dollar bills jutting out of every pocket. Roxie had the look that, at any moment, she would be up dancing on the bar like one of those Coyote Ugly girls.
Jessica made her way to the table where Dale sat across from Uncle Johnny. The two men were talking intently about something as she approached.
“Can a girl find a seat in this place?” she asked above the singing coming through the speakers situated throughout the bar.
Both men looked up surprised. Uncle Johnny’s eyes sparkled with approval while Dale flashed his white smile.
“Sure can,” Uncle Johnny replied. “Especially one as pretty as you.”
“Hey, you old wolf, she’s my date,” Sheriff Sutton responded, standing up to pull a chair out for her.
Jessica settled into the seat. “I’m sorry I’m late.”
“No problem.” he replied. “The karaoke is just getting started.”
For the first time, Jessica noticed the woman on the stage was finishing a great version of Pasty Cline’s “Crazy.”
“She’s pretty good,” she commented as sporadic applause sounded throughout the bar.
“That’s Pearl singing. She won a few karaoke contests in Oklahoma City and Tulsa. She’s also running the machine tonight. If you want to sing something, you tell her.”
Uncle Johnny pushed a large binder across the table in her direction. “The song lists are in here.”
“Oh no, I’m not singing. Just going to drink a couple of beers and relax.”
As if on cue, Roxie came over to the table. To Jessica’s surprise, she held a pot of coffee and refilled cups in front of Sheriff Sutton and Uncle Johnny.
“What are you drinking, Jess? It’s on the house for you,” Roxie said.
“Budweiser in a bottle will do.”
“Bud, it is then.”
Roxie retreated from the table toward the bar.
“No alcohol for you guys tonight?” Jessica asked.
“Not on any night,” he replied. “It wouldn’t look good if the town’s sheriff drove home after having a few. As for Uncle Johnny, he’s on the wagon again.”
“Cheers.” Uncle Johnny raised his cup and winked at her.
“I feel bad about drinking in front of you two.”
“Don’t.” He placed his hand over hers. “You look really pretty tonight, Jess.”
“Thanks.” She gave his hand a light squeeze. “You look pretty good yourself, cowboy.”
From the stage, Pearl announced to the audience the next singer would be Uncle Johnny.
“What song are you butchering now?” Sheriff Sutton asked as the older man left his chair.
“‘Hotel California,’” Uncle Johnny replied and left the table for the stage.
Sheriff Sutton grimaced and said to Jessica, “This is going to suck. We went from the best to the worst singer in the house.”
“Is he that bad?” she asked above Joe Walsh’s long opening guitar intro while Uncle Johnny took the mic.
“I always tell him if you get near the melody, grab hold.”
Jessica laughed. Uncle Johnny started to sing, and she knew instantly what Sheriff Sutton meant. The poor man was tone-deaf, but he pushed on fearlessly off-key through the song. What notes he couldn’t hit, he made up for with raw determination.
Halfway through the painful rendition of the Eagles’ classic, Roxie came over and put down a cold bottle of Bud on the table and noticed the sheriff holding her hand.
“There you go, Jess.”
“Thanks, Rox.”
Before she left, Roxie’s eyes met the sheriff’s for a second. An instinctual female alert went off inside Jessica. There was a connection between them. The two may have been lovers in the past, she decided. Are they still? How many others has he had? She probably didn’t want to know. Taking a draw from the longneck, she let the cold liquid wash down her throat. She never was a beer drinker. While stripping in Chicago, she downed mixed drinks to loosen her up before she went onstage to undress in front of strangers. Somehow, the cold beer and the karaoke went together.
“Good stuff,” she said after taking another sip.
“I hope you weren’t talking about Uncle Johnny’s singing.”
“No.” She laughed. “Just the beer.”
Mercifully, the song ended and Uncle Johnny returned to his chair. “How did you like it?” he asked Jessica.
“The Eagles are hard vocals. You sang it from the heart.”
“Oh God, don’t encourage him,” Sheriff Sutton whispered in her ear.
Uncle Johnny smiled. “I like this girl.”
Jessica leaned back in her chair and studied the rest of the bar. The customers consisted mostly of the type of men she had come to see during her few days in small-town Oklahoma. The collective fashion sense in this part of the country consisted of worn shirts, cowboy boots, and faded blue jeans with tobacco can rings on their back pockets. The most common form of headgear was the sweat-stained baseball cap, most with OU or OSU logos, since the college football season was under way. Women came in all shapes and sizes, most in blue jeans and wearing various tops ranging from those that showed half their bellies to men’s plaid shirts with pearl-snap buttons. Gone was the urban street ghetto look young people tried to emulate in Chicago. No flashy bling and caps turned the wrong way.
Sheriff Sutton squeezed her hand. “Hey, are you still with me?”
She turned and smiled. “I was just getting a feel for the place. I’ll be waiting tables here tomorrow night.”
“What do you think of Oklahoma so far?”
“It’s very different from Chicago.”
“You haven’t experienced Oklahoma until you’ve danced the two-step.” He stood and pulled her up from her chair.
“Oh no, I’m afraid I don’t know how,” she stammered in protest.
“You will now.”
He swept her on the dance floor in front of the karaoke stage while a young man sang a George Strait song about his exes being in Texas. He held her close, pressing her body against his.
“Just follow my movements,” he said, beginning the dance.
“I’ll do my best.”
She joined in the step. He was an excellent dancer, and in moments she was in tune with him and the music. For her, dancing up to this point entailed using a pole or cavorting on the stage floor like a slut. It never involved moving in unison with another male. Sheriff Sutton spun her left and then right before bringing her up close again to his chest. His scent filled her nostrils, and the blood rushed to her head. The mix of beer, smoky lights, and his overpowering male scent made dancing almost like having sex. She fought back the urge to kiss him on the floor in front of everyone in the bar.
; The song ended.
“How did you like it?” he asked, looking down into her eyes.
“I’ll let you know when I catch my breath.”
He laughed and released her from his arms.
“Excuse me, everyone,” Roxie’s voice boomed over the speakers. She was on stage holding the karaoke mic. “I have a special announcement, so listen up. We have a beautiful new girl starting tomorrow night. I want everyone to give Jess a warm Roxie’s Roadhouse welcome.”
The crowd cheered and clapped, and a few even whistled. Jessica waved and smiled. She returned to her chair next to the sheriff. This time he put his arm around her shoulders, pulling her closer.
“I think they like you,” he said.
“I hope so.”
The rest of the night progressed in a blur of dancing, country music, and Sheriff Sutton’s subtle flirting. She drank too much beer and staggered a bit when she walked from the dance floor. After midnight, Roxie came to the table and poured her a cup of coffee. Jessica looked up, perplexed.
“Sheriff’s orders,” Roxie said with a smile.
By the last song, she had drunk coffee until she was sober again. The bar began to clear out in a slow progression. The sheriff had not kissed her yet. She had the impression he was waiting for the right moment.
“I’ll walk you to your car,” he said, taking her hand. “Are you okay to drive?”
“I’ve drunk enough coffee to float a battleship,” she replied.
He laughed and guided her to the door.
“Tomorrow night, Jess,” Roxie called out. She was behind the bar figuring tabs. Jessica realized she hadn’t seen Collin in a while.
“I’ll be here.”
In the next moment she was out the door in the cool night air. Sheriff Sutton had his arm around her waist as they walked to the Camaro.
“Hold me close, I’m cold,” she said, leaning against him.
“Not a problem.” His strong arms wrapped around her waist, and she snuggled her face into his shirt. She breathed in the smell of him.
“Did you have fun tonight, Jess?”
“I really did.”
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