by Jack Lacey
‘Fuck it!’
I kicked the ground in anger and went back inside, then felt the glares of the clientele eyeing me up with renewed interest as I returned to the booth. The moustache guy dabbed his mouth with a napkin slowly, observing me carefully. I eyed him back sternly until he’d dropped his gaze and continued reading his paper, then turned my attentions to Bunny’s plate still feeling hungry.
Halfway through it I froze, fork suspended in mid-air as another realization hit home suddenly. I’d left my new coat in the truck too...I’d taken it off as the cab had heated up, then in my daze, just wandered into the café in my bomber jacket, which I’d been wearing underneath.
To make matters worse, the money Tug had given me was in the inside pocket of the sheepskin, as well as the disc from Ethan’s flat...I put the fork down and lowered my head into my hands. Now I was screwed without transport or money again, and I may have just lost a vital piece of evidence to boot that could have offered a decent lead if the trail went cold in Kentucky.
‘Mother of a whore…’
I pulled Bunny’s plate closer and continued its demolition trying to suppress my exasperation. Why in the hell hadn’t I been more careful? Why hadn’t I just refused the lift from the woman and just waited for another? I got up and wandered over to the counter and waited patiently for the waitress to return.
‘Hey,’ she said, as if sensing something was amiss.
‘Look, Candy. I’ve got a bit of a problem. My lift has driven off without me.’
‘You serious?’
‘I’m afraid so. They’ve obviously forgotten I was riding along with them. And my coat and wallet are still in the cab…’
Her face dropped then transformed into one of suspicion.
‘I’ll get the manager.’
She disappeared for a few minutes then returned with an oriental-looking guy wearing a crisp tie and a sour expression.
‘What is the problem exactly, sir?’ he said, looking me up and down with as much mistrust as his employee had.
‘The ride I took has just pulled away without me. All my cash is on board.’
‘It’s not a problem, sir. There’s a Western Union just a couple of miles up the road. Someone can wire you some money through.’
‘Yeah…the thing is, my wallet was in the cab along with all my cards, so I don’t have any I.D now too.’
‘Do you have a phone?’ he pushed sharply with a slight air of condescension.
‘I think so,’ I replied feeling it in my trouser pocket.
‘Then ring your friend who’s driving the truck and get them to come back and pick you up.’
‘I would if I had their number, but it was just a ride...’
The manager placed his hands on hips, beginning to look flustered.
‘Then ring another friend and ask them to bring you some money.’
‘Thing is I don’t know anyone in the U.S. I’m travelling alone on a business trip. You know how it is...’
‘What about the people you are doing business with?’ he replied smartly.
I fought the temptation to slap him and raised my hands in the air in defeat.
‘Okay okay...how much do I owe you?’
‘Sixteen dollars.’
‘Why don’t I bring you twenty when I head back this way in the next couple of days? How does that sound?’
‘What, like all the other guys who don’t want to pay for their food?’ he pushed.
I felt another presence loom at my side and glanced right. The moustached guy had now walked over feeling that he needed to get involved.
‘Where you headed?’ he said, like some gnarly old sheriff.
‘Kentucky.’
‘That’s a long ways from here, son. And you say you’re going to come back along this same route and pay this man when you do?’
I stifled my annoyance at the stranger’s interference and nodded blankly.
‘What business you got up there?’
‘What business is it of yours?’ I replied, my patience thinning.
The moustache man licked his lips and tilted his head to one side, trying to work out how much of a threat I was.
‘Looks like you’re gunna have to get your people in Kentucky to drive on up here and dig you out of a hole, mister, because we don’t like free-loaders in these parts.’
I returned his steely gaze, eliciting a nervous twitch in response, then pushed passed him and headed for the toilets.
‘I’m going for a piss. When I return we’re going to sort this out, okay?’
In the toilets I leaned my head against the wall in frustration and closed my eyes as I urinated, then slammed my hand against the tiles several times as another wave of anger coursed through me.
‘Idiot!’
‘I reckon it might be best if you just paid up, then headed onto wherever you’re heading, son, so there won’t be any more trouble,’ the moustache guy said behind me suddenly.
I looked around slowly, irritated at the unwanted advice and the untimely intrusion. He took a step back and unbuttoned his jacket. I knew what was coming.
‘And what business is it of yours...big guy?’ I pushed, turning my attention back to the urinal.
‘We don’t like strangers causing trouble around these parts, that’s all. And as a long-time friend of this establishment, I feel it’s my place to inform you that anti-social behaviour is not welcome nor tolerated here. You’re in Iowa now.’
I glanced around again. His right hand was hovering near his belt, like he had some invisible magnet in his wrist that was being drawn to his buckle.
‘Sure,’ I said spinning around suddenly, my penis hanging out.
He looked down aghast and I caught him hard with a sweet upper cut a second later, which sent him staggering backwards in a daze. As he teetered, I caught him again with a vicious right-cross and watched him slump to the floor out of the game.
I zipped up my fly, then stooped down and grabbed his lapels and shook him violently until he flickered open an eye.
‘If you’d had minded your own business, then it wouldn’t have come to that...buddy.’
I smacked his head hard against the wall to complete the process, then dragged him by the boots to the end cubicle where I kicked open the door and hauled him inside.
With great effort I lifted him onto the toilet, fanned open his jacket, then unbuckled his belt and pulled it free, allowing a heavy sounding pouch to fall to the floor. I opened it up and eyed the circular ammo clips inside, then felt higher up and retrieved a chrome-plated revolver.
I stared at it for a moment, unsure of what to do, then wiped my prints off the handle and slipped it back into the holster. If the cops thought I was armed, then they were more likely to fire indiscriminately if I was cornered, and that was a whole new level of stress I really didn’t need right now…
Hurriedly, I tied his hands together using his belt then wrapped the rest around the cistern pipe, hoping that it would prove enough of an impediment to allow me time to get away. Next I checked his inside pockets and found a set of car keys and a couple of wallets.
I opened the smallest and studied the card inside for a moment, then the shiny badge above it. It belonged to one, Willy McDougal, registered Fugitive Enforcement Officer from Iowa. The guy was a god damn bounty-hunter.
‘For Christ’s sake...’
I hurriedly pulled some cash from the other wallet, took the keys, then yanked his jacket down over his upper arms, before stepping back out into the washroom calmly as if nothing had happened.
I closed the door gently and eyed the toilet for customers. We were still alone. I breathed a sigh of relief, grabbed an ‘out of order’ notice from a nearby toilet and hung it on the bounty-hunter’s cubicle, then walked calmly back out into the diner, and over to the statuesque manager who was now standing at the service counter with his arms folded.
‘Your friend has talked some sense into me there. I’m truly sorry,’ I said handing over a tw
enty. ‘Keep the change...’
Leaving the manager with his look of disgust I made my way coolly out into the evening rain. I knew I didn’t have much time before the bounty hunter woke up and broke free of his bonds, or the manager realized I was stealing the guy’s truck and called the police. I glanced around and saw the manager standing by one of the windows, staring out at me. I had to find the bailiff’s car quickly and smoothly and make it look like it was mine...
I pulled out the keys and saw that they were for a Ford Ranger from the key fob. A quick scan of the lot uncovered two such pick-ups that fitted the bill. Both cabs seemed empty. I continued in the increasing downpour to the nearest one, illuminated underneath a bright floodlight, some twenty or so metres away to my right. It was a dark blue model from the nineties with a double cab, and looked as worn out as the bounty hunter had. A few metres away I clocked the tale-tale metal grill in the back. It looked like McDougal’s...
I slid the key into the lock hoping it would fit, and turned. Nothing happened. I tensed and tried again. Same thing again. The lock was either stiff or it wasn’t McDougal’s damned pick-up. I cursed and looked over at the restaurant. The manager was still standing there, watching me. I took the key out, wiped it on my sleeve and put it back in. I tried again. This time the mechanism freed.
I swung the door open and jumped in, then just sat there staring out of the window at the sheet rain wondering if I’d done the right thing. If I got caught now the cops were going to throw the book at me. They might even dig deeper and realize that I was wanted elsewhere. But what in the hell was I supposed to have done in there I reflected. Let McDougal get the better of me? Wait for the cops to be called?
I sparked up the engine and searched the glove compartment as the engine warmed, hoping a map might be inside so I knew where I was going. There wasn’t…I looked at the fuel gauge. There was almost a full tank of gas. Things weren’t so bad.
I reversed out carefully, looked over at the café doors to see if anyone was coming to investigate, then drove up the ramp onto the highway and melted into the blur of headlights feeling mightily relieved.
I gave myself a half-hour at most before the bounty hunter woke up and raised the alarm. In that time I would have had to have dumped the car and found myself a new means of transport, or be easy prey for any passing highway patrol.
And who knows what sort of trouble that would land me in if I was taken into custody. There was always a chance I could be extradited back to Nevada and be made to stand trial. And they still liked to hang their murderers there...
Chapter Thirteen
‘old friends’
Somewhere in Iowa. Around midnight.
I stared into the driving rain then at the illuminated sign for Waterloo, and wondered if I was about to meet mine if I confronted the stranger who had been tailing me since I’d left the diner.
For the last thirty minutes or so the driver had change lanes every time I had, then increase his speed in tandem with mine so as to remain close in the difficult conditions.
Maybe I was just being paranoid, but my gut feeling was that it was the same guy who’d been hanging around the Longfellow’s Gallery in Minneapolis, his Oldsmobile now having been replaced by a dark green Chevrolet.
‘Shit...’
I clenched my jaw and pumped the gas again. I was pretty sure that if it was a cop, then he would have made his move by now, and probably back at the last stop too, when I was alone and easy to take.
But if he wasn’t official, then who in the hell was he? Some guy connected with Jed and his operation who wanted to settle the score? That didn’t feel right - too much effort. He’d claim the truck damage on the insurance and keep his mouth shut. Lenny had said he’d front up some money as it was...
I drove for another ten minutes then passed the State police parked up on the shoulder, waiting to pounce on some miniscule violation. I tensed, expecting it to pull out. Nothing...
I glanced nervously in the rear view mirror as it finally faded into the distance then released the breath I’d been holding onto. The cops obviously still didn’t have my plate. Now that was a miracle considering that the intended half-hour had now multiplied into two. I knew I had to ditch the pick-up fast and lose the car that was tailing me in the process. I had a thought. Maybe I could combine the two?
A large white sign advertising farm produce flashed past me suddenly as if answering my call. Instinctively, I decided to follow it and took the next ramp off the highway. I needed to make a move, and one that was bold enough to force the tailing guy’s hand, so that I could try and lose him somehow, or even better, pull some sort of vehicle swap.
I continued following the signs along the snaking road for a good few miles until suffocating woodland finally gave way to a large expanse of freshly-worked fields and a sizeable farm in the distance. A few hundred yards further I took a sharp left into the entrance, then a pot-holed track which ran up to a large, dilapidated barn, just about discernible in the continuing downpour.
I worked my way towards it slowly then glanced in the rear-view mirror. The tailing car had taken the bait and had turned into the main drive too...I kept my speed steady, as if unaware of its presence, then arrived at the barn where I pulled up outside and killed the engine.
I checked my immediate surroundings for activity. All seemed quiet...I flicked the interior light on. There were some yellow waterproofs scrunched up in the passenger foot-well. I stooped down and hurriedly put the jacket on, then darted out into the elements towards the building, hoping the barn wasn’t locked, and that no one else was sheltering inside.
To my relief, the place looked empty. Unused. I entered tentatively, dragged the heavy door shut and surveyed the ramshackle contents in the gloom. Inside, were rows of defunct farm machinery, antiquated tools hanging from the walls, and bales of foul-smelling straw piled up to the ceiling. I clocked the half-broken ladder leading up to the loft and decided not to take it. Then I saw the bright headlights of the tailing car fan their way ominously underneath the doors.
Instinctively, I grabbed a pitch-fork hanging from a hook nearby, then worked my way deeper in to the darkness, where I took off the waterproof and stuffed it rapidly with handfuls of straw, before placing it next to a stack of pallets.
I heard the guy kill his engine outside. His headlights remained on, focused on the building. I took cover behind a pile of massive tractor tyres and wondered if this was where my luck was finally going to run out, then pessimistically, how long it would take for someone to find my body if it did.
A few minutes later the stranger entered alone. Slowly, he pushed both of the barn doors wide open so that the headlights were illuminating the interior of the barn, silhouetting him like he was some lonesome cowboy coming to clear up the town.
I took him in. The guy was tall. Rangy. He had dark curly hair and was dressed casually in a roller neck and tight grey slacks that seemed a bit out of date. I estimated he was in his mid-to-late thirties, in good shape, and that he meant business from the semi-automatic he was holding by his side.
I shook my head in muted horror wondering what in the hell Olivia had got herself into to attract such trouble, then ominously heard the sound of thunder rumbling far off like a barrage of misfiring cannons.
The guy edged forwards and scanned the barn. I eyed him anxiously wishing I hadn’t been so damned holy and taken McDougal’s Thirty-Eight. At least I could have offered up some sort of resistance if things got heavy. God, I couldn’t remember the last time a job had gone tits-up so damned early...
‘I know you’re in here,’ the guy said confidently, ‘All I want to do is talk,’ he pressed, creeping closer.
I felt some drips on my head and looked up. The roof was leaking badly now, the rainwater splashing onto my collar and running down the back of my neck in an uncomfortable trickle.
I cursed and shifted my position slowly trying to avoid its trajectory, trying to not make a sound, then went down on m
y haunches and peered through a gap in the tyres to check on my new admirer. Now, he was eyeing the loft some ten to fifteen metres away, edging slowly towards the ladder as if intent on scaling it.
‘All I wanna do is talk,’ he said again in a southern drawl, pointing his gun upwards, then down over the rusting machinery in sweeping arcs.
I kept my mouth shut and watched him melt slowly into the shadows then disappear completely from view as he searched a different corner of the barn. A minute later, I heard footsteps work their way back up towards my position, five or ten metres to my right. I clutched the pitch-fork tightly, knowing I probably had one chance and one chance only, to get the upper hand using the element of surprise...
Gradually he birthed out of the darkness like a bear on its hind legs, lowering his automatic in my direction as he shuffled closer. Now he was just a few metres away at most. I tensed. I could almost smell the guy’s aftershave, smell the guy’s fear.
He stopped suddenly, as if sensing I was there. I drew a shallow breath then flinched as another thunder-clap crashed directly overhead, vibrating a shovel off its hook. He span around and stared at the pallets to his left, then eyed the yellow waterproofs through the wooden slats.
‘I know you’re there, fella, so you better come on out with your hands up. I’m not going to harm you. I just wanna talk...’
Whenever I heard that line in the movies, the innocent guy always got dusted, and I certainly wasn’t going to find out for real...I kept quiet and watched the gunman inch his way towards the pallets, his automatic outstretched, his hammer cocked. It was now or never. Do or die. There was only one chance to get it right. A mere second between life and death...
I took a final breath and crept out of the shadows. The guy was crouching down now. He had the jacket in his hand. I saw my chance and raised the fork. A floorboard creaked...The stranger spun around. I thrust at his gun hand. Missed. He fired an instinctive shot. Missed. I jabbed again, and punctured his wrist. He screamed, fired several wild shots that slammed into the tin roof. Then he swung around trying to disgorge himself as I held on like I was trying to land a damned shark.