by Sam Jones
He pocketed the keys and headed for the door. He didn’t bother wiping anything for prints (because he had none). Lastly, he snatched his briefcase resting by the door, switched off the light, and headed out.
Ten seconds. Flat.
Black turned right as he closed the door behind himself. He immediately spotted a couple of heads poking out of their rooms, curious as to what the commotion was all about. With his face turned to the left, lessening the chances of a potential eyewitness profiling, Black came upon Room 10 and pounded a fist on the door.
Amanda answered. Her already bewildered expression amplified as her eyes fell upon Black’s face.
“What the hell—”
“We’re blown,” said Black. He grabbed her by the hand and swiftly yanked her out of the room, snatching her purse from a chair inside at the same time. She was too stunned to protest or even fully process what was happening. Other guests began to point and talk louder as Black pulled Amanda out of the motel and marched her towards the street. He could feel her trembling and the cold flush of her skin through his.
The kid with the Lee Child book emerged from the office just as they hit the sidewalk, his attention aimed in their direction. Shoulders slumped, eyes wide, cell phone to his ear.
Cops.
Black’s eyes fell upon something across the street in the auto strip mall. He made a beeline for it, tugging Amanda along as he went. As they crossed through an opening in the Metro construction, Black spotted the yellow Harley he saw not too long earlier resting by the sidewalk. The bald man’s. Black could feel the keys in his pocket.
No. Stick with a car.
Black tossed the keys to the bike in a bush.
“Tell me what’s going on,” Amanda said.
“Shut your mouth,” replied Black.
In less than ten seconds they were in the strip mall. Black pulled her towards their destination – a Ford Pinto. ‘80s model. Red. Rust stains all over the bumper.
No alarm.
Black pushed Amanda to the side, cocked his elbow, made contact with the back left window, and smashed it to pieces. He reached inside, released the locks, and opened the driver’s side door.
“Get in,” he said.
Amanda planted herself in the passenger’s side as Black slid behind the wheel. He yanked underneath the wheel itself and began fussing with a flurry of wires. He stripped one, connected it to another, and the engine coughed to life. Black threw the thing in gear and peeled out of the lot, the squeal of burning rubber blended in with the odd, metal screeching of the retro engine that was in dire need of maintenance.
He hooked a left and headed towards the freeway. Nothing but the sound of the tires on the road and the puttering engine filled the void until Amanda mustered up the courage to speak—
“Where are we going?” she asked.
“You have one minute,” said Black.
“One minute until what?”
“One minute to explain to me what’s going on and why you really want your husband dead. Why someone wants you dead.”
“I don’t—”
“You heard all that commotion back at the motel?”
“That was you?”
“Came from my room, yeah.”
“You were staying there? Were you watching me?”
“Damn right I was.”
Amanda went pale.
“Why?” she asked.
“Keep you close by. I knew you weren’t being a hundred percent with me about your husband. I was going to feel it out a little more and figure it out for myself, but then that idiot came knocking on my door.”
“Who was he?”
“Don’t know. Pretty sure he was tailing us since the bar. I think I spotted him while we were there.”
“So, what? He’s a hit man?”
“Not a very good one. He’s dead now.”
Amanda was trembling, nerves and adrenaline catching up with her. Black could hear her hyperventilating. For a second, when his eyes fell upon her chest, biology took over and the outline of her breasts heaving in and out in rapid succession through the thin fabric of her sweater stimulated Black. He did another quick scan and saw the benefits of her consistent home workouts.
WRONG TIME.
“Deep breaths,” said Black as he refocused.
“I don’t… I don’t understand…”
“Neither do I. That’s why you have less than a minute left to explain it to me.”
Amanda’s eyes darted back and forth across the windshield. Her mouth was open, eager to say something, anything, which would make this all go away.
“What are you involved in, Amanda?”
“Nothing!”
“Forty seconds left.”
“Honestly, I don’t know what’s happening!”
“This isn’t just some marital dispute run amuck. The guy I just killed was after you. Who is he?”
“I. Don’t. Know!”
Black was pissed.
He hung a right, pulled the car into a residential side street, and slammed on the breaks. Old apartment buildings. Most of the lights were out. Trash in the street. A ghetto. The glimmer of orange street lamps and the sound of what was probably a pit bull barking set the backdrop as Black removed his Beretta and placed it flush against Amanda’s head. “I have every reason to execute you and go back home. Call it quits.”
She was too shocked to move as the cold steel molded a circle into her left temple. Black couldn’t help but remark at her placidity, even in light of the situation she was now in. She was scared, but shed no tears. This girl may have been a victim, but she certainly did her best to not show it.
At this point Amanda was pretty certain that Black was insane. But it was an insanity that might be advantageous if it were on her side.
“I need you to tell me the truth,” said Black, the gun still held to her head.
“You know as much as I do,” she said. “I just wanted to have my husband killed. He’s involved in something. With someone. I don’t know who or what… but they’re everywhere. I’ve felt eyes on me ever since Richie came back from Las Vegas. Ever since he met that guy Greg.”
“Who’s Greg?”
“His friend.”
“What’s he look like?”
“Bald. Beard. Brooklyn accent.”
And the penny drops.
“Why?” Amanda asked.
“He was the one back at the motel.”
Amanda shut her eyes and pressed into her seat, the crunch of the leather under her weight became her only comfort in the world at that moment.
“What the hell is going on,” she said, desperately wanting to know.
“I’m not sure…”
Amanda glared at Black. Defiant.
“Then why don’t you just kill me?” she asked.
Black could see the sincerity in her eyes. He didn’t want to kill her, but she was compromising him. He may not have killed innocent people (far as he knew) but he considered being compromised a direct result of someone wishing ill will upon him. Their innocence was lost on him, at that point. Amanda had compromised Black. Wasn’t her fault, but she had. Killing her would grant him an easy way out of the situation.
But it would also piss off Trask.
That’s when she’ll call for a Re-Val…
Black made his decision.
He lowered the gun and engaged the safety.
“Can’t botch this up,” said Black. “I need to make sure I finish this contract. Don’t want to pull a Marcus Silver.”
“What?”
“Sorry. Inside joke.”
Amanda breathed easy. She waited a few moments to let the dust settle before she spoke—
“What are you going to do?” she asked.
“I want to hear it from your mouth,” said Black.
“Hear what?”
“Everything. The whole story. Maybe something will stand out that’ll make this make sense.”
Amanda started from the beginning
.
She claimed to have met Richie Dubin at a Renaissance Fair (you heard correctly) about five years prior. She was a ‘commoner’ dressed in frilly lace that served watered-down beer to guests. Richie was one of the knights that rode around pretending to joust other knights for fifty bucks an hour. For a guy who never had a career before, it was the closest thing to consistent work that he ever had. He was the most attractive to Amanda when they first met, like most people are before they hit three months of dating. He was her literal knight in shining armor. Nothing else existed but the fantasy world they worked in and their spring fling-like romance. For two years it was like some kind of summer camp between the two of them.
A then a car apparently ran over Richie.
The time spent he spent in the hospital over the course of the following two years drained them both of their finances, patience, and happy-go-lucky attitudes. Even when Richie got back home he still wasn’t mobile. He was stuck in a wheelchair and throwing back painkillers like Tic Tacs. Amanda did her best with two jobs, but even that wasn’t enough.
Then something happened.
Richie, somewhat back on his feet and going for walks in the local park every morning, meet a guy named Greg. Greg, a guy with a Brooklyn accent, had an accident similar to Richie’s that broke his spine, and he took up walking when he got mobile again. Needless to say, their common stories got the ball rolling, and a relationship blossomed. Then the day came when Greg wanted to introduce Richie to some of his ‘friends’ on a weekend excursion to Vegas.
Whatever happened over the course of those three days had changed things.
Drastically.
Richie came back from Vegas with a lot of money, an amount so big, that when asked how he got it, a slithery and coldblooded response came out of his mouth—
“You will do everything I say from now on. Whenever I want, no matter the request. You won’t go out, you won’t have any more friends, and you will not work.” He laid out a manifesto, a set of rules that Amanda had to live by. Included was a regimented workout schedule and a strictly adhered to diet monitored via monthly physicals by a doctor (always paid for in cash). The doctor made it a point to never look Amanda in the eye during the procedures, even more so when he would hand over the physical copies of her clean bill of health to Richie.
Which Richie asked for and collected every time.
Without fail.
Amanda never had time to process the shift. Richie quickly enforced the new house rules with threats, and an odd knack he had developed for preventing her from running away or calling the police, right when she went to do it, every time she went to do it. No matter how sneaky she was, Richie was always ten steps ahead.
She tried to drive out of town.
Richie followed her and took away her keys.
She tried taking a bus.
He caught up and pulled the bus over.
So on, and so forth.
At the start, she fought him. But the resistance didn’t last long. Fighting didn’t help. Neither did the law. Eventually, she just gave in.
And that was how it was. Amanda kept things healthy. Richie monitored the consistency (while blowing resources on booze and drugs) and kept her secured within a world mostly limited to their apartment.
There was an element in the new routine that disconcerted Amanda more than the shift in Richie’s general behavior. It was the times he had stepped out on his own that she thought she could use to break free—
She’d attempt go for a walk with the simple motive of flagging someone down who would maybe listen to her story, and maybe lend a helping hand. Many times, around the limited areas she was allowed to go, Amanda felt like people were staring at her. She had this odd feeling that if she tried to scream out or tell a neighbor: somebody would stop her. Throw her in a car. Take her back to Richie. It felt like Richie had people everywhere. At a certain point, she realized she had about a five-mile radius that she was able to travel, shop, and recreate in before she was called home.
She called it her ‘dog distance.’
Amanda hit fast forward and told Black the bit where she got pregnant. Two months ago. Then she said she fell ill. Then she lost the baby.
“Was him being violent the reason you had a miscarriage?” asked Black.
“No. It was whatever I was sick with. It had nothing to do with Richie.”
“All right. So he’s a treat to live with. Between the restrictions and losing a baby, you were fed up. I get that.”
“I’m positive people have been following me for a while. I just could never figure out who. It’s almost like… like someone else has been watching me. Someone other than Richie.”
Black tried lining up the pieces. Nothing fit yet. It was a shitty, ill-coordinated situation, all around. A shitty hand to be dealt. But, it was shitty circumstances just like this one that Black had become more than accustomed to by this point in his life.
“Someone has an eye on you,” said Black. “Maybe Richie. Maybe someone else… Who the hell was Greg, exactly?”
“Dunno,” Amanda said. “Maybe if you left him alive, we’d have found out why…”
Black thought about it.
She’s right.
“Well… He shouldn’t have pointed a gun at me,” said Black, happy with his answer.
“What do we do now?” asked Amanda.
Black started up the engine. “We’re going to find another car, first of all. Cops are probably at the motel by now. People saw us leave in this piece of shit.”
Black put the thing in gear and made a U-turn. “Where were you before you came to the bar tonight?” he asked.
“My friend Nicky’s,” said Amanda.
“You didn’t see anybody following you after you left his place?”
“No.”
“You sure?”
“I was checking over both shoulders every three seconds in case Richie showed up. There was no one else.”
“Okay... Let’s go after Richie. You said he’s one of two places, right? Your place or some strip club?”
“Far as I know.”
“‘The Gentleman’s Club.’ In Burbank.”
“Yeah.”
“And the ten grand?”
“What about it?”
“You’re good for it. Right?”
“Yeah. Why?”
Hmm…
“Just double checking,” Black said.
Don’t want to pull a Marcus Silver.
They made a pass at Amanda’s place in Hollywood, a gray-colored, two-story structure that leaned slightly forward. A rusted, baby blue fence that a six-year-old could hop over ‘gated off’ the complex. Palm trees and bushes enclosed the entire building. Lots of them. Black had to practically hack his way through the shrubbery after he hopped the fence. His left leg became entangled in a bush. He tripped over himself and disappeared amongst the shrubs.
God damn it…
He poked his head out of the bushes like a gopher. Black looked around the complex as he stood back up and saw no one making a fuss. No one had noticed. He then looked up at Amanda and Richie’s apartment, Number 6, and saw that it was pitch black. He went upstairs and looked in through the front window to confirm its currently vacant state.
No furniture…
Does anyone even live here?
Black checked his watch—
11:00 p.m.
According to Amanda’s recap of Richie’s schedule, he most likely was out and about.
“He’s at the strip club,” Amanda said.
“How do you know for sure?” asked Black.
“He goes every night. After he got into needles it was the only place he could go to get attention. No sex though. He’s got enough of a soul that he’d never pay to get laid. He just pays to get close. Wasn’t hard to figure out he was going there. A bunch of times he came home reeking of cheap perfume and sweat and showcasing the same, defeated look on his face that any person sports after paying for physical attention.
That combined with a matchbook he left on a counter one evening, which said ‘Gentleman’s Club Burbank,’ had been enough evidence for me to draw a logical conclusion.
“Quite the detective,” said Black. “Gentleman’s Club it is. You know the address?”
“No.”
“We’ll figure it out. Only so many places it could be in Burbank. Get this done, get me out of here.”
“Peachy.”
“Ever so peachy…”
Black looked around—
“We need a new car.”
They ditched the red monstrosity a couple streets away from her apartment as something creative formulated inside Black’s brain. He told Amanda to follow his lead as they walked away from the Pinto and towards the throbbing pulse of Hollywood Boulevard.
They strolled along the street, the nightlife officially in full bloom as they passed the CNN headquarters on the right. The boulevard itself was clogged up with traffic, all of it a cacophony of noises and sights—
Occasional slamming of car horns.
A transvestite being shooed away from a 7-11.
A homeless person talking to himself.
An actor hopping off a bus, wearing his headphones and clutching onto headshots.
A guy on a bike, almost dancing with it, ‘70s Rock spilling out of a speaker hidden in a bag strapped to the handlebars.
Los Angeles was something else. Good or bad, Black wasn’t sure. Black once heard someone tell him that LA operated more like a college campus than an actual city. He always thought it to be an accurate description.
A police cruiser turned out of a parking lot from the Hollywood precinct two hundred feet away.
We’re cool. No one’s looking for us. Yet.
“You planning on hailing a cab right now?” asked Amanda.
“No,” said Black. “Got a better idea.”
Amanda looked around.
“I’m surprised Richie hasn’t shown up by now,” she said. “Or whoever else has been stalking me.”
“Oh, right. You said you thought people were following you.”
“People are following me.”
They continued up the street for about a block, the famous Cinerama Dome was now on their right. Everything about the aesthetic seemed unblemished and the structure itself was holding up phenomenally well due to renovations several years back. Black always wanted to watch an old 70mm flick in there.