Double Dead

by Gary Hardwick

  “Get back down!” said Jesse.

  “Just drive the damn car!” yelled Ramona.

  Jesse slammed on the accelerator, and the car took off down the street. Behind them their pursuer's car sped up. “It's them,” said Ramona with fear.

  Jesse hung a sharp right onto a side street. He prayed that there was no one in the street.

  “Gimme your gun,” said Ramona. “I'm gonna shoot back.”

  “Don't be silly,” said Jesse. “You stick your head out the window and you'll be shot.” Another shot rang out, and Jesse heard another, smaller explosion. Immediately he felt the car pull to one side.

  “I think they hit a tire!” he cried. Jesse moved toward a traffic light. It turned red, but he kept going. Jesse went through the intersection, barely avoiding an accident. The car that was trailing him screeched to a stop.

  Jesse jerked the car right at the first intersection. He quickly pulled the car over on the residential street; as they slowed, the sound from the flat tire grew louder. “Get out,” Jesse said to Ramona. Ramona grabbed Florence's bag, and they darted away from the car.

  As they moved between a row of houses into an alley, they could hear their pursuer's car roaring down the street behind them. The alley was dark, and it stank to high heaven.

  “Shit, who died back here?” Ramona said.

  “Please, don't say die,” said Jesse.

  A car pulled into the alley. Its headlights flooded them. Jesse and Ramona took off running. Two quick shots rang out.

  “This way!” yelled Jesse. He jumped over a weather-worn fence and ran through a yard. Ramona followed. He headed for the front of the house. They heard the car slide to a stop on the gravel of the alley behind. A door opened.

  “Don't look back!” Jesse said.

  They bolted into the front of the house and kept going across the street into the backyard of a small wood-framed house, painted a dirty brown. The backyard was dark and filled with thick grass. Jesse and Ramona went over to the small wooden garage.

  “We can't keep running,” said Jesse. “Sooner or later they'll hit one of us.” His heart raced, and he was out of breath.

  “In here,” Ramona said. She pulled the garage door open. There was no time to discuss it. Jesse and Ramona went inside. The garage was dark, but light from a streetlamp seeped in, cutting the room into light and shadow. Ramona grabbed Jesse's hand and searched out a place to hide. Jesse felt awkward holding her hand, being led by a woman, but he didn't dare get into the macho argument about that now. Ramona inched across the darkness. Her foot hit something, and it clanged softly.

  “Dammit,” Ramona whispered.

  “Careful,” said Jesse.

  Finally they discovered a tall wooden crate at the back of the garage. They got behind it. Ramona pulled the green bag in front of her. Jesse moved in as far as he could get. In the tight space they were shoulder to shoulder.

  Through his fear Jesse realized that Ramona was squeezing his hand like a vise. He felt her body next to him, and he could feel her shaking. He put his arm around her, pulling her in front of him. He pulled her near protectively, and she did not resist. She nestled into his body, and her trembling subsided.

  Jesse could feel her warmth, the texture of her hair, and her heart, beating wildly. He was frightened by the killers and excited by the woman with him.

  “I hear them,” Ramona whispered.

  Outside, he heard the sound of men moving. The killers seemed to be in the yard next door to the dirty brown house. Jesse heard something fall on the ground with a soft thump.

  “Shit!” said one of the men.

  Ramona's eyes widened. Her heart beat faster. “It's them, one of the killers,” she whispered.

  “Shut the fuck up,” said another voice from outside.

  The two men came closer to them. Soon Jesse heard the sound of the men moving through the thick grass in the same yard they were in. It was an awful sound, swishing, like a knife being pulled across coarse fabric.

  The door to the little garage opened. A man stepped inside.

  Then Jesse heard the sound of another door open, only farther away.

  “Get the hell off my property!” said a woman's voice.

  “Kiss my ass,” said one of the men.

  “I'm calling the police!” said the woman. Then a door

  slammed shut. “Fuck, let's go,” said one of the men. “We'll catch 'em on the street.” The man in the garage with them left.

  After the man left, Ramona's heart slowed. She took a deep breath, then let it out. Her grip on Jesse's hand loosened, and suddenly he was aware that he was wrapped around her body. He stood behind her, his arms around her torso, their bodies pressed tightly together. They waited a full ten minutes before they dared move out of the dark corner.

  Ramona moved away from Jesse. He felt the coldness wash over the places where her body had been. He mentally admonished himself for being so taken by her. He had to keep his mind on business.

  They left the garage, moved through the thick grass in the backyard, and went to the street. It was dark and deserted.

  “Now what?” she asked.

  “They'll be waiting by our car, so we can't go back to it,” said Jesse. “We need to get away from here right now.”

  A big semi rolled down the street. It was covered with a heavy tarp. From the other end of the street, coming toward the truck, a police car turned the corner. Jesse's heart bounded into his throat.

  Ramona quickly dashed behind the rolling truck and jumped inside with the duffel bag. Jesse didn't have time to think. He followed her.

  Inside the semi he felt big metal cylinders. The police cruiser rolled down the street and stopped by the dirty brown house. Ramona found a little patch of floor and sat down. Jesse leaned against the back of the truck's flatbed.

  They sat in darkness, bouncing with the load. No one could see them, but they had no way of knowing what was going on outside. They had moved along for several minutes when the semi came to a halt. After a few moments the truck was still not moving.

  “Why'd he stop?” asked Ramona.

  “It's not a traffic light,” said Jesse. “I don't know.”

  They sat for another ten minutes. The sound and smell of truck and car exhaust were all around them. The truck jerked along for a moment. Then they heard: “Where you goin'?” said a man with a raspy voice.

  “Leamington,” said the driver. He had the rough, semi-melodious tone of a Canadian.

  “Purpose?”

  “Carrier for construction.”

  “What you totin'?”

  “Piping,” said the driver. “Just like it says.” The driver waited a moment, then added: “Hey, I'm really running late. Can you cut me some slack, eh?”

  Now Jesse was sure he was Canadian. They always said “eh?”

  “You been by here before, right?”

  “Yeah, two days ago. You did me before, eh?”

  “Right, I remember you,” said the guard. “We're really backed up tonight.”

  “Tell me about it,” said the driver. “Goddamned cops are all over the place since that thing.”

  “That black guy, killed a woman.”

  “Yeah. He's a lawyer too. Just goes to show you. Don't matter where they end up, huh? Look, I'm gonna let you through.”

  “Appreciate it.”

  The truck started to move. It gained speed; then it bumped as the surface changed. Suddenly they could hear the tires moving over metal ridges. It sounding like a big electric razor.

  “Lord,” said Jesse. “We're on the bridge.”

  Ramona sighed as recognition washed over her. “Damn,” she said.

  The truck moved faster. Jesse and Ramona were tossed by the big truck as it sped along. They heard engines roaring around them as the big truck rolled across the Ambassador Bridge into Canada.

  PART 3

  DOUBLE DEAD

  1

  O, Canada

  Windsor is a city in t
he province of Ontario. It is a scant few miles from Detroit, but worlds apart in the way people live. Canada's strict gun laws make violence a rare occurrence, and Windsor has few of its American neighbor's racial ills.

  Jesse and Ramona slipped quietly out of the big truck as it stopped for gas. Crossing the border on the Canadian side of the bridge had been less harrowing, but they were still left with a dilemma. They were in another country. A half mile from Detroit, but a million from their goal.

  As they headed down a dark street, the Detroit skyline looked mean and distant.

  “Damn,” said Jesse. “The border patrols will be a bitch to get past.” He walked along hurriedly. It was even colder by the river. “Come on. If we're spotted here, our little adventure becomes a federal matter. We don't want that.”

  “So what?” said Ramona indifferently.

  “Federal police don't fuck around like these local boys,” Jesse snapped. He was angry and frustrated. “Forget it. Just be quiet and listen to me for once, and I'll get us out of this mess.”

  She looked at him incredulously. “Who the hell are you talking to? You know, I should a dumped you like I wanted to.”

  “And go where?” asked Jesse. “You would have been caught inside a week.”

  “Not if I didn't have to carry your ass around,” Ramona shot back, walking past him.

  “You carry me?” Jesse said. “That's funny. I just saved your-- Forget it.”

  “You're not gonna hold that over me,” said Ramona, getting louder. “So you took a cut for me. So what?”

  “I'm not holding anything over you,” said Jesse. She was right in his face and looked angry, as angry as she could with a face like hers.

  “This whole fucked-up mess is your fault!” said Ramona. “If we didn't have to meet that white woman, they never would have found us. She probably led them to us.”

  “Florence wouldn't do that. I swear, you are so damned juvenile,” said Jesse. “Like a kid who blames her mama because she can't have a toy.”

  Ramona winced at the mother reference. “You know what, fuck this,” she said. “I want out. You get back the best way you can. I'm going my own way-right now.” She walked off defiantly, flinging down the duffel bag.

  “Go on,” Jesse said. He picked up Florence's duffel bag. “I'll be going back across tonight.” He didn't think about the fact that he needed her to find LoLo and the black case. He was pissed at her and didn't care.

  Ramona walked quickly away from him, her arms swinging up and down. She muttered something to herself that he couldn't hear. Jesse started to go after her but could not bring himself to do it. Ramona hesitated at an intersection, then kept walking, rounding a corner and moving out of sight.

  A half hour later Jesse sneaked in the back of the Windsor Casino. It was a huge place, but a far cry from the glitzy glamour of Las Vegas. Windsor Casino was strictly blue-collar, a trucker's version of a gaming temple.

  Windsor had a long tradition of gambling and nightlife. Jesse used to think of it as a city of bingo parlors and strip bars because its downtown streets were filled with both.

  Windsor Casino was also a wake-up call to Detroit's leaders, who had been thinking about building their own casinos for over a decade.

  Jesse entered the back of the casino carrying the duffel bag on his shoulder. Activity was thick, and he blended in with the working-class crowd. He nestled into a corner, away from the action.

  He tried not to think of Ramona as he walked over to a courtesy phone on a wall by the rest rooms. How would he find her when he got his transportation together? Would he be able to? First things first, he thought. He picked up the receiver.

  “Hello, I need you to page a Velane Johnson,” said Jesse. He waited, and a moment later he heard the name repeated over a loudspeaker. Another moment, then: “This had better be important,” said a man's voice on the phone.

  “It's me, Jesse,” said Jesse. “And it's very important.”

  Silence, then: “Holy shit,” said Velane. “Where are you?”

  “In the casino.”

  “In the casino!” said Velane. “Jesse, you're hot, man.” Velane's voice was quavering. “Man, you're all over the news.” “I know,” said Jesse. “I need your help.” “Jesse, I can't-” “Sure you can. Just remember what I did for you.” More silence, then: “Meet me at the McDonald's over by the

  bridge in twenty minutes. Twenty minutes sharp, Jesse.”

  “Got it,” he said. As he hung up, he breathed easier. Velane had connections that could get him back safely to America. Now all he had to do was find that stubborn woman.

  Jesse grabbed the green bag and turned around-- right into the face of Dick Steals.

  Ramona stood by Cheetah, a strip club close to the river. There was a small park nearby on the waterfront. Several people sat on benches and watched the boats and Detroit city skyline.

  Ramona looked out across the water and wondered bleakly how long it would take to swim across.

  That damned Jesse had a lot of fucking nerve blaming her for anything. She'd saved his ass ten times in the last two days, and this is how she's treated? It suddenly occurred to her that she was acting like a scorned lover. “Bullshit,” she mumbled to herself, yet she had to admit she was attracted to him. He was handsome, in that rough kind of way that she liked. And better yet, he had no idea how good-looking he was, always a nice quality in a man. Jesse was a poor boy who'd made something of himself too. Their shared background in this regard made her feel closer to him. He had changed, the way that she had always wanted to but couldn't. Jesse also had a sense of refinement, education, and class that she definitely lacked.

  He had probably saved her life when the dirty white man tried to stab her at the 7-Eleven. That knife would have gutted her good, and he took it for her. And on top of it, after he was cut, Jesse stood there, knife hanging out of his clothes, asking her if she was okay. She had been struck by something at that moment. She couldn't believe that he'd sacrifice himself for her so willingly. All the men she had known were selfish or something close to it. Their affection for her had always been some twisted extension of their own love for themselves. But Jesse was different. He appreciated her for what she was. Ramona could not remember anyone feeling that way for her.

  Her thoughts drifted to the dark garage where they had hidden from the killers. She had been terrified but felt safe when he embraced her. He was afraid too, but she knew at that moment that Jesse would have given up his life for her. It was a comforting feeling in contrast with the great danger they were in. It was ironic that she'd found this great devotion in a man who thoroughly pissed her off.

  She hadn't had a man affect her like this in a long time. Maybe that was why he enraged her so much. She was weak for him, and she detested weakness. She tried to deny it, but the truth of this fact lingered in her heart. It was frightening to think that anyone had control over her this way. She had made it a long way without falling for some man and his bullshit. But Jesse had gotten to her somehow. She wanted him, and it thrilled and angered her to admit it.

  She dismissed these thoughts as she watched a big yacht pass by on the river. She had to get back to Detroit. Once there she would get the case, find Jesse, and get that tape. He was nice, but he was holding her back with his nonsense. And she always did work better alone.

  Ramona heard people coming out of the strip club. A group of men in business suits were talking loudly and drunkenly as they left the club. Too old, she told herself. Two women then walked out, laughing and lighting up cigarettes. “Two weird,” she said out loud.

  She had gone back to gazing at the river when a Windsor police cruiser rolled onto the street behind her. Ramona saw it, and fear leaped into her heart. She calmed herself, then turned her back on the cops. The cruiser went right by her.

  A few minutes later the sound of loud voices made her turn back to the club. She saw a group of four young men coming out of the bar. There were three white and one black. They wer
e probably barely old enough to go into the place. Many young kids came to Windsor to drink because the drinking age was lower than in Detroit.

  Ramona decided to make her move. She was a little scruffy, but she still looked good. Her jeans were tight enough, and she'd draped her braids over her shoulders.

  As she walked over, the men stopped instantly. Ramona could see the lust from watching the naked women still in their eyes. She had them.

  “Excuse me, fellas,” she said, “but I need some help. “

  Jesse knew that Dick Steals recognized him. Even with his hair cut short and a scruffy beard from not shaving, Richard had made him. Dick Steals was coming out of the bathroom and was still tugging at his zipper. He looked at Jesse, and recognition flashed in his eyes. It was quickly masked by fear, then resolve. Dick Steals turned away and started to move on.

  Jesse started to run, but he didn't. Instead he stepped in front of the attorney.

  “Richard, you know it's me,” said Jesse.

  “I don't know you.”

  For a moment they stood facing each other, saying nothing. Then Dick Steals reached into his jacket, and for a moment Jesse was about to go for his gun. To his surprise, Richard pulled out a wad of bills.

  “Here, take it,” he said. “It's all I got.”

  Jesse was too shocked to answer. He barely noticed his own hand extending for the cash. As he took the money, he noticed the look of sadness on Dick Steals's face. It was almost apologetic.

  “Whatever you're doing, Jesse, be careful,” said Dick Steals. And he walked away.

  Jesse watched him narrowly, expecting him to run to the nearest cop and rat him out. But Richard returned to a craps table and quietly settled in with a crowd. Jesse watched, waiting for him to make a move, but he didn't. Suddenly Jesse wanted to know what Richard knew. Why would Richard help him?

  Then Jesse became aware of other familiar faces at the table.

  Frank D’Estenne and Jesse's old friend Ellis Holmes were also there, drinking, laughing, and gambling. Jesse watched them for a while, then shoved Richard's money into his pocket and left the way he came in.