by Crowe, Stan
“Clint! That was the exit!”
A signboard that read “Golden Gate Bridge 101 North” passed overhead to his right while a line of vehicles peeled off in that direction, heading back into town.
“I thought you said I had a mile, maybe two?”
“We did when you first asked me! You’re the driver! It’s your responsibility to pay attention to these things!”
“Well in case you hadn’t noticed, I’m paying attention to other things! Like keeping us from ending up as roadkill, and praying that this thing doesn’t run out of gas!”
“I didn’t have time to fill it up before you stole it!”
“Well next time I have to run from a homicidal witch, I’ll make an appointment first!”
The car shook again, and Clint willed it to go faster.
“Next exit?” he barked.
“I don’t know! Soon?”
Clint risked a backward glance at Jane’s ride. It was still behind him to the left, though it had to dodge a lane or two over to clear other cars. As it drifted back toward him, the gun came out once more, and Clint ducked yet again. His blood froze as he heard the rounds strike the front door panel instead of his window. A gout of smoke puffed from under the hood, obscuring his vision for precious seconds. He released the gas on a hunch, and when his vision cleared, he found himself almost nose-to-tail with a lime-green Toyota. He braked, but not fast enough to completely avoid nudging the hideous rice burner. The Bentley seized the initiative to edge itself into his flank and shove the Audi laterally toward the ranks of trees lining the freeway. Clint could see Jane’s shadowed face staring daggers from the passenger’s seat of the other car.
And to think he’d wanted to date her once upon a time.
A Glock 9mm peeked out the window, and Clint’s life flashed before him. Any second, that gun barrel would spit death one final time, and that would be it.
Happy moments from his childhood flitted before him. There he was in the swimming pool as a toddler, Dad tossing him in the air and catching him again and again. Then, his first bike ride that didn’t involve losing skin. Then, his sister Holly’s ninth birthday, where she invited three new friends, Molly, Becca and Jane.
Then he saw his first date—a middle school dance with Kelly Graydon—and blushed at the embarrassment. He’d tried so hard to impress her, but ended up with his underwear on his head, a hole in the knee of his jeans, and a smorgasbord of bruises after the school bully had walked all over him, and then walked away with Kelly.
High school zipped by in a moment, and he was stunned as a girl’s face long since forgotten, yet surprisingly significant, flashed before him, and then was gone. He couldn’t get it back, and he couldn’t remember anything other than a vague impression that he should know her better.
Suddenly he was graduating, and he and Holly and her girlfriends were out for the best night on the town he’d ever had. He’d even made a move on Becca, since he knew she’d never be coming back; he’d been too nervous to try anything with Molly or Jane. But had Jane been jealous even back then? He couldn’t tell; he’d been too young to think about such silly things.
Before he knew it, Molly was there, whisking him away from his apartment and to unexpected safety. His heart tightened at the thought that any chance he had with her was a mere finger flick from being eternally null and void. Guilt crushed him at the full realization that, yes, Molly had been right after all, and now he was costing him—them, rather—a future. He took some comfort in the idea that his last, living thought was of her.
Only it wasn’t. Sullivan’s firm-featured face fluttered to the top of his consciousness, and for the barest of instants, he comprehended that for some reason, he didn’t mind dying next to her.
“CLINT!”
Her hand was suddenly on the wheel, and the Audi heaved left, shoving the Bentley away. Clint watched it race past them as Sullivan’s Audi bumper-car slammed the Toyota again; the Toyota was slowing fast, one tire clearly flat.
“Are you alright? I thought you’d fainted,” Sullivan said with a gasp.
Clint shook his head violently to clear it. The taillights on the black luxury car flared red, and the glint of gunmetal shone in the morning sunlight.
“Hang on,” he exclaimed. He dropped into third, and broke hard left. The Audi rammed the Bentley on the driver’s side hindquarters, and Clint saw Jane’s gun spin away into the air. He heaved a short-lived sigh of relief; Jane’s ride was braking hard now, slowing them with it, and bringing the nose of the Audi dangerously to the right. Clint fought to turn into the skid, but the wheel responded sluggishly; he suspected the last volley had hit the power steering fluid line. Sullivan’s car shifted further and further, and Clint could tell that physics was about to take over; once they were sideways, a roll was inevitable.
Up ahead, a road sign on an overpass read “C Chavez St” with an arrow gesturing to the right. And then they were under the viaduct. A plan coalesced in his mind in a split second. Kicking the brakes, he backed off enough to disengage from the Bentley’s rear bumper. Then he opened the throttle wide, and literally scraped past the black car on its left side, cutting back into its lane before speeding ahead. Jane pursued immediately, making up the distance almost at once. The “C Chavez St” off-ramp split away from the main road, and fell behind them. The Bentley roared toward the battered Audi, and the bushes ahead of them were giving way to another guardrail.
“Do or die,” he muttered. “Brace!” Clint spun the wheel as hard as he could to his right, praying no one was coming up on his right side.
“CLINT!”
A hedgerow that separated the freeway from the off-ramp rushed to meet them, and then exploded under the force of the car. Clint lurched forward as the speed dropped, and then they were rattling hard down a small, steep incline. The Audi’s nose ground hard against the off-ramp pavement, and with a series of bone-shaking bumps and a spray of sparks, they were level again, and pointed directly at the far guardrail. The despondent steering left Clint unable to fully correct. The rail buckled, but held, shoving them back into their lane. Horns wailed, but Clint managed to avoid the off-ramp’s own split. He hung right, and exited onto westbound Cesar Chavez more by default than anything.
The Audi sputtered and coughed as it rolled along the street, hints of its perilous chase leaking behind it. More smoke spewed from under the hood. Clint noticed a baseball field through Sullivan’s window, and turned right at the street past that. He was grateful they hadn’t wound up here after hours. There was something unnerving about old buildings with turquoise paint peeling from the stucco. Too many of the bystanders were in dark hoodies for his liking, and the whole place exuded “run down.” For now, though, it was better than being shot at.
Ignoring the “no parking during these hours” sign, Clint rolled to a stop at a pullout by a pedestrian bridge adjacent to the ball field. He staggered out to pointing and stares. A middle-aged man in overalls was approaching, a questioning look on his face.
“Need a hand, son?” Mr. Overalls asked.
Clint bent forward, bracing his hands against his knees. “Naw. Car trouble,” he panted.
“Car trouble doesn’t usually involve bullet holes.”
“Jealous ex,” Clint responded. As if on cue, Sullivan emerged from the car, and Overalls’ eyes widened.
“Ah.” He nodded knowingly. “Well, good luck with all that,” he said, and he turned to leave.
“Hey—wait!” Clint called after him. “Where’s the nearest bus stop that’ll get me back into downtown?”
TEN
It was all Clint’s fault. But then, that didn’t surprise Lindsay; it had been his fault since her sophomore year. Oh, she didn’t mind riding public transit. If nothing else, it was often cheaper and far easier than trying to park in downtown. What she minded was ending up next to a drunk with an overdeveloped sense of flirtation.
For the fifteenth time in the last mile, Lindsay gently shoved the grizzled man�
��s hand off her knee. The man chuckled, exposing what was left of the nicotine stain she assumed used to be his teeth. The stench of old tobacco mixed with cheap booze (and something else she didn’t care to even guess at) whenever he opened his mouth.
“So I says to her,” he said, continuing the conversation that had barraged Lindsay since he had forced his way into the seat next to her, “you know me, baby. I’ll drink to that!” And he laughed openly again. Some shot him looks, but most of the passengers ignored him, intently staring at the floor or newspaper or the front of the seat in front of them. It was surprisingly packed this time of the morning, or Lindsay would have found another seat ten blocks ago. She looked back over her shoulder for the hundredth time this trip, silently hoping—begging—that her client would look up from his thoughtless stupor and recognize her predicament.
No. There he was, three rows back, staring at the ceiling and looking dumb as a rock. It was bad enough he’d rejected her by deliberately placing himself as far away as open seating would allow, but to have him refuse to even be a gentleman when she was being accosted by exactly the kind of man her mother had always warned her about? It was outrageous! Unfathomable! Insulting! Her mind’s eye pictured a knight clad in polished steel riding his white horse up to the dragon, and then asking for directions to the nearest pub while the damsel squirmed and screamed in the dragon’s claws, waiting for the knight to get a clue and drag her out of harm’s way so they could share an endless kiss, silhouetted by the sunset. When had the knight turned into a moron? That wasn’t the way it was supposed to work.
Wow, she thought. His eyes… No. No!
She exhaled sharply, and whirled to gaze out the window. That crusty old hand was back on her knee again, and she forced it away, and stood.
“Awww. You’re goin’ already, honey?”
Lindsay squeezed her eyes shut. Think nicely of people, Lindsay. You promised yourself you would.
“Yes,” she said with faux sweetness, “my stop is coming up soon.” To her credit, that was true. Thankfully, there was an out on Market and Fourth, only a few blocks from the parking garage. Lindsay hefted herself out of the seat, and wriggled through the press of people as the driver was calling out, “Fourth Street.” She heard a wave of excited murmuring behind her. She glanced back to see her Client plowing gracelessly through the other passengers as if trying to escape a fire. A cluster of women of all ages wore shocked, besotted expressions at his passage. Several began fixing their hair, others reached out to tug at his shirttail, and one seized his leg.
“Uh, ladies,” he croaked, “this is my stop, thanks. You all ride safe now.” As one, the gaggle of love-struck women bustled to their feet. Their muttering crescendoed into screams and cat calls.
The bus rolled to a stop and Lindsay stepped out on the unloading area to await her clueless knight. She turned to see the Client hanging out of the bus, one foot dangling over the platform, the other still on the stairs. Five different ladies had hold of his shirt or pants; pure terror burned on his face. Sensing this was not a situation she wanted to be involved in, Lindsay put some distance between herself and the scene.
“Serves him right,” she mused aloud. Taking time to enjoy his distress, she leaned against the corner of a building as he flailed and spun in a frantic escape attempt. A loud “rip!” cut the air, and he stumbled forward out of the bus, and into a flat sprint up Stockton.
“RUN!” he cried.
Lindsay laughed openly, watching as the feminine horde devolved into open brawling in the stairwell of the bus stop. Through the bus windows, she caught glimpses of the driver making his way back toward the fray. Before he could reach the altercation, one woman broke free from the scrum and raced after Clint. That broke the log jam. Within seconds, the entire herd of crazed females was running, loping, or huffing along in Clint’s wake. With a final “Ha,” Lindsay turned and walked calmly after her first client.
She caught up with him at Union Square, vaguely recalling that he’d run sprints in high school instead of cross-country. He was slumped behind a planter wall, sweating beads and panting deeply. Every other second, he would scan back toward the bus stop with panicked eyes. His dress shirt was torn in at least two places she could see, and smudged with a few lipstick stains. His head looked like rats had built their nest on it. His tie drooped limply across his left shoulder, and she could see a welt from where it had dug into his neck. This was so perfect. She’d been waiting for this moment for over a decade. The mighty Clint Christopherson reduced to a quivering mass of fear. So much for Mister “I’m so hot I can melt you with my smile,” or Mister “My love letters make thousands swoon, but I write them only to you.” No, he was only a scared little boy beneath that shell of a man who was (she hated to admit) even more delicious than he had been as a high school senior.
“So, Mister Christopherson, I see you’re in good shape. I think you clocked about five seconds flat for those two blocks.”
He looked up at her through reddened eyes, and brushed stray hairs out of his face. “Are… they… g-gone?” he panted.
She adopted an air of ignorance. “Who?”
He weakly gestured toward the bus stop. “Crazy… women. Foll… owing… me.”
Lindsay smiled demurely. “Was that the Clint Christopherson Fan Club, or just more ‘jealous exes’?”
“Gone?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“G-good. Time?”
She blinked. “Excuse me?”
“What… time… is it?” Her Client straightened a little, and tried popping his back.
Lindsay glanced at her watch. “Ten fourteen. Why?”
At that, he froze, and then sagged to the ground, looking defeated. “Blue blazes,” he murmured. “I was going to be early.”
He suddenly looked oddly vulnerable, there on the sidewalk. She reached to comfort him, and then thought better of it. He’d hung her out to dry.
But you’re better than that, Lindsay. Don’t stoop to his level. “Early for what?” she asked kindly.
The Client hid his eyes with a hand. “No, no, no, no.”
For the briefest of instants, Lindsay actually felt bad for him. Utter defeat was plastered on his face like a bad advertisement.
A long, sad sigh escaped him. “Let’s just get my car, and make the best of what’s left. I’ll… I’ll call Graphitti and tell them… I had some car trouble.”
“With your Audi, right?”
He shot her a pleading look. “Hey, I’m sorry about your car. Even though I woke up this morning thinking, ‘Hey, I need to get someone’s car shot up’ doesn’t mean I picked yours intentionally.”
“Wait,” she said. “You mean, that was planned?”
He groaned. “Are you for real?”
Oh, right, she thought. He’s a jerk. How silly of me to forget.
“Look,” he said, “I’m sorry. I owe you a car worth probably five years of my wages. I’m not sure I can make that up to you anytime soon. Let’s get this case finished and I can at least give you a good referral and an IOU, and we’ll call it good.”
She gasped. No, Lindsay. Happy thoughts. Don’t be like Mom. Lindsay forced her breathing to slow, and turned away from where he was looking up at her, just long enough to paste on a fake grin. “Well, Mister Clint,” she said, “I suppose there’s always ‘forgive and forget.’ However, we’ve got a few other problems on our hands. Namely that we were part of a high-speed chase that involved firearms. The San Francisco Police Department is sure to look into that. What’s to keep me from telling them that you were the one behind the wheel? I was an innocent bystander.”
The Client hauled himself to his feet, and made the sound of a rimshot. “You’re a P.I. and a comedian. I have a friend at a local club. I’ll get you a gig and that’ll help you get some extra cash to get your car prettied up again. Now will you please go get my car?”
His tone was like a slap in the face. “I don’t recall you asking nicely,” she retorted.
“Actually, I don’t recall you asking at all, before now.”
He shrugged. “I was giving you the benefit of doubt by assuming you were intelligent enough to comprehend simple instructions the first time.”
Her jaw dropped. He hadn’t changed at all. No, take that back. He no longer cared about maintaining the façade of a polite gentleman. Was he really so enamored with himself and his gorgeous face that he reasoned he could treat people any way he pleased and they’d still fall all over him?
“I’m sorry, Mister Christopherson—”
“That’s Clint, Self.”
“Will you quit calling me Self, please?”
“I’m Clint. Mister Christopherson is my father. You’re Sullivan and Self. Same person.”
“Whatever,” she said hotly. “Clint. There. Happy? Are you always this arrogant?”
“Are you always this sensitive?”
She clenched her teeth, but fought the anger down. She would not let this situation fly away. She should just drop the case here; but even in the act of firing her client she needed to maintain the lead. “As I was about to say, I’m sorry, but you hired me to locate a specific individual—not to be your personal valet slave.”
“I’m paying you. Slaves don’t get paid.”
She made an indelicate growl. This man was infuriating! “Never mind the semantics! Why do I have to be the sacrificial goat here?”
“You have the keys, and you know where you parked the car.”
She held out his keys. “It’s on the third level of the garage on the corner of Sutter and Stockton.”
Clint shook his head. “Me getting the car is a bad idea.”
“So was driving through a hedge at two hundred miles an hour!”
“That was necessary. And I think I was only doing one-twelve right before impact. But hey, we’re still alive, right?”
She had no words for that.
“Look,” he said, “Jane knows my face too well. She wasn’t driving that car, either. That means she has help. Her help probably knows my face as well. Jane also seems to have an uncanny ability to find me even in the middle of a crowded city.