10
WILL YOU HURRY up, for crissakes? He’s waiting.”
“I’m coming, I’m coming.”
The bitch in the Chevy Suburban dabbed at her nose, snapped her compact shut, then climbed out and slammed the door. The sound reverberated through the underground parking lot like cannon fire.
Her husband, a balding butterball in a three-piece suit, was already standing at the parking-lot elevator, watching with a scowl as she straightened her skirt and checked her reflection in the passenger-side window.
“Oh, for Christ’s sake,” he said. “You’re not gonna screw the guy. Come on!”
Gunderson had half a mind to cap the butterball right then and there.
Count your blessings, asshole. At least she can walk.
Gunderson sat behind the wheel of his Jeep Commando, which was parked across the aisle from the Suburban. He’d been watching these two pathetic retards ever since they’d pulled into the stall five minutes ago. Neither looked particularly happy, and he had no clue where they were headed, but when they returned, they’d be considerably less jovial than they were now.
He was about to steal their wheels.
Gunderson had spent six months of his sophomore year of high school at the Illinois Youth Center downstate. His offense had been unsophisticated and impulsive: a smash and grab of his shop teacher’s prized Datsun 240Z.
If six months at the IYC taught him anything beyond what the juvenile-court schools called an education, it was the wonders of the slim-jim and the screwdriver. No more smashing and grabbing for Gunderson, he now had the tools he needed to forge a career, and forge it he did.
The next few years were spent organizing and operating a car-theft ring that quickly became a top priority for the Chicago Major Crimes Division. Cars were stolen, stripped, and dismantled in less than two hours, their parts often sold for three times the value of the car itself.
Those days were long behind him now, but Gunderson still knew how to use the tools of the trade. In fact, he’d copped this crappy old Commando with nothing but a slotted two-inch Craftsman. The Jeep had served its purpose well, but now he needed something roomier. Something that said soccer mom.
The Suburban was the perfect choice.
The elevator bell rang and Mr. and Mrs. Waste-of-Space stepped inside, the Husband of the Year still complaining about how late they were as wifey-poo adjusted and readjusted her ample, if sagging, bosom.
Gunderson waited for the doors to close, checked to make sure the aisle was clear, then swung his legs out of the Jeep and crossed to the SUV.
Approaching the driver’s-side window, he fed the length of a slim-jim down past the rubber, gave it a little shake and a tug. The lock popped open. Once inside, he pulled a stubby screwdriver from his pocket, jammed it into the ignition, and started the engine.
The whole operation took less than forty seconds.
On his way out of the parking lot, Gunderson paid the attendant five bucks (and they called him a criminal), rolled the Suburban up the ramp into traffic, and headed back the way he’d come.
As ripe little Jessie exchanged shy glances with the pimply-faced geeks in her biology class, Gunderson thought about his sweet Sara lying silently in her hospital bed and allowed himself the slightest of smiles.
Retribution is a wonderful thing.
11
WHEN THE BUZZER buzzed, Bobby Nemo’s muscles tensed. An instinctive reaction. He’d been on edge for weeks.
“Oww,” Carla groaned, “you’re hurting me.”
“Shut up,” Nemo said. He got off her, told her to get dressed, then pulled his pants back on and eased onto the sofa, letting his gaze drift to the television set across the room. ESPN extreme sports.
He was trying to look relaxed, but he didn’t feel so relaxed.
“That’s it?” Carla said. “We’re not gonna finish?”
The buzzer buzzed again.
“Get your clothes on and answer the goddamned door.”
Carla pouted. Pushed her lips together and got all teary-eyed. Nemo hated when she did that. Made her look like some needy skank, especially when she sat there on the floor with her tits and ass hanging out. He knew what was coming next.
“You don’t love me anymore.”
“Jesus, Carla, don’t start, okay?” He picked her T-shirt up off the carpet and threw it at her. “Just shut up and get your ass in gear.”
She got quiet then and pulled the T-shirt on, the words MAN BAIT plastered across her surgically enhanced chest. She reached under the sofa for her panties, started to slip into them, then had a sudden change of heart and flung them at Nemo instead. “Asshole.”
She got to her feet and sashayed toward the door, the T-shirt barely covering the crack of her ass. She was planning to give their caller a beaver show, doing it to spite Nemo, because she knew how much he hated it when she did that.
Of course, Carla made her living giving beaver shows. Let guys stick dollar bills up her snatch even though a sign at the back of the club where she was headlining clearly said TOUCHING OF DANCERS STRICTLY PROHIBITED. God knows what she let them do during the private dances.
But that was work. This was different. Nemo had been staying with Carla for a few weeks now, and this was the second time she’d gotten pissed enough to go to the door bare-assed. Last time some poor geek of a Mormon kid got a glimpse of that little Brazilian wax job of hers and almost shot his wad right there in his Fruit of the Looms.
Carla had laughed like a friggin’ hyena, but Nemo didn’t think it was funny. Not one bit.
The buzzer buzzed a third time. Nemo’s hand slipped under the seat cushion next to him and touched the grip of his Desert Eagle.
Carla called out, “Who is it?”
“Chu’s Chinese. I’ve got your order.”
About goddamned time, Nemo thought, and withdrew his hand. His muscles relaxed. Everything was cool. Nothing to worry about.
For now, at least.
The first time Nemo saw his face on TV, he almost shit a brick. This was the day following the Northland First & Trust disaster, when he, Alex, and that dimwit Luther were nursing their wounds at a house on Lake Shore Drive, a big mother of a place owned by Sara’s brother, Tony.
Reed was an unwilling participant in the proceedings, a petulant little prick who spent one minute crying about his kid sister and the next threatening to call the police. So Alex wasted no time setting him straight.
They were watching CNN on Tony’s big screen, watching a report on the robbery, when Nemo’s face filled all sixty-two inches of the thing, some candy-assed news anchor telling the world what a fuck ball he was.
Nemo didn’t feel like a fuck ball, and he sure didn’t feel like spending the rest of his life in a federally franchised HoJo, so he split from Alex and Luther that day, telling them they’d all be better off if they didn’t travel in a pack.
They kept in touch, using stolen and hacked cell phones, Luther the lucky one because he’d never been identified, living back home with Mommy. Alex carved his own shit-hole out in the boondocks while Nemo grew a beard and played nomad, bouncing from place to place. He thought about leaving the country altogether, but that would make him a stranger in some strange land and he didn’t exactly relish that thought.
In the end, he stayed where he belonged, right here in the city, where he felt comfortable. The Feds probably figured he was holed up somewhere in South America, but he never got overconfident, always stayed alert. Keeping to himself during the day, he cruised the bars at night, constantly looking for a safe place to perch. He spent a few nights out at Fredrickville, holed up in some cracker-box motel that a friend of Luther’s managed, but a restless spirit sent him back to the city, prowling for a better grade of poon.
Then he met Carla, a dancer at the Pussy Palace, a G-string-optional strip dive on South Clinton.
Carla always opted to go without.
That night, she took him to a private booth and gave him head like y
ou wouldn’t believe. Nemo didn’t know if it was the size of his unit or the fact that he thanked her afterward that made her fall for him, but she invited him home and he’d been here ever since. It had worked out real good, because Carla didn’t watch the news or read the papers and had absolutely no idea who he was. Carla was a cute little piece of ass, but she’d never be a contestant on Jeopardy.
Nemo watched her get up on tippy-toes and look out the peephole. She was short, but it was all muscle and soft curves.
“Puny little oriental guy,” she said, then turned and gave Nemo a defiant grin. “Let’s give him the full show.”
She peeled off her T-shirt and tossed it aside. Her tits probably would’ve bounced if they weren’t so pumped full of silicone.
“Jesus, Carla. You’re gonna get your ass popped for indecent exposure.”
“You call this indecent?”
She turned back to the door, reached for the dead bolt, twisted it.
The moment the latch clicked, the door burst open, knocking Carla on her ass. She yelped in surprise as a horde of federal flak jackets barreled past her and piled into the living room. “Federal agents! On the floor! Now!”
Every one of them carried heavy firepower.
Nemo’s hand ducked under the cushion again, but before he could reach his Eagle, three agents were on him. Big hands grabbed his shoulders, spun him around, and pushed him to the floor. He felt the pressure of a knee digging into his back as his arms were jerked behind him and nylon cuffs looped his wrists.
The room got quiet then, except for Carla, who squealed like a terrified puppy as they dragged her naked hide outside. After she was gone, Nemo heard footsteps thump toward him across the carpet—someone with a slight limp to his gait. A moment later, an agent knelt down next to him and got right in his face.
Jackass Donovan. Wearing a grin that Nemo felt like putting a fist in.
“Hiya, Bobby.” Despite the grin, there was no hint of humor in Donovan’s eyes. “We need to talk.”
12
HE IS SO cute,” Jessie whispered.
She and her best friend, Laura, stood near the foot of the steps outside Bellanova Prep, trying to look nonchalant as Matt Weber strolled by. It wasn’t easy, but Jessie managed by pretending to have a sudden intense interest in the zipper of her backpack.
Matt tossed her a quick glance as he passed.
Jessie caught it, giving him an equally quick smile in return. He was way out of her league, but that glance meant something. She was sure of it.
Laura thought so, too. “Did you see that?” she said, keeping her voice low. “Did you see the way he looked at you?”
Jessie just nodded, momentarily unable to speak. She had been admiring Matt for weeks now and this was the first time he’d shown any real interest. Could she be misreading the look?
“You’ve got to ask him,” Laura said.
“No way.”
“Come on, Jess, he’ll go. You know he’ll go.”
She was referring to Bellanova’s upcoming Ladies First dance. Girls were expected to do the asking, a thought that terrified Jessie, especially when Matt Weber was factored into the equation. Jessie felt confident about many things, but the thought of asking him to the dance scared the heck out of her.
She watched Matt cross the parking lot, step around a maroon Suburban parked at the curb, then dash across the busy street. Horns honked in his wake, but he ignored them and headed down an alley.
Normally Jessie would keep her eyes on him until he was completely out of sight—staring at that tight little butt of his could easily become a full-time occupation—but something else caught her attention, and it had nothing to do with Matt.
Her gaze shot back to the Suburban parked at the curb.
The guy behind the wheel looked familiar.
It was hard to tell from this distance, but she could swear he had a ponytail.
Was it the guy from this morning? The cute one driving the Jeep?
“Hey, Jess! Laura!”
Jessie turned. Karen and Kathy Northam approached from the top of the steps, both out of breath.
“Better hurry or we’ll miss our ride,” Karen said. She pointed toward the street, and true enough, their bus had already pulled up to the curb.
Tossing all thoughts of Mr. Ponytail from her mind, Jessie ran with her friends to catch it.
HOW MUCH LONGER you stuck with your dad?” Laura asked.
They sat near the back of the bus, close to the engine. Jessie had always liked the sound it made, a low rumble she found soothing and somehow reassuring.
“I’m not stuck,” she said.
“Doesn’t sound like it, the way you’ve been talking.”
Jessie shrugged. “We’re a work in progress.”
“Uh-huh, sure. Just be prepared for the big letdown.” Laura’s own father had been gone for years. “When do your folks get back from the Caymans?”
“Couple of weeks.”
“I don’t see why they didn’t just take you along.”
Jessie made a face. “It’s some kind of second honeymoon thing.”
“Yuck.”
“Tell me about it.”
The mental image of her mom and Roger doing it in their beachside hotel room was not a pretty one. Jessie couldn’t count the number of times she’d heard them moaning and groaning through her bedroom wall at home.
Double yuck.
Not that she had anything against Roger. He was an okay guy. He gave her space and didn’t hassle her too much about homework and grades and junk like that. He and Mom had been together since she was eleven, so she was used to having him around. He was by far the least offensive of the jerks her mother dated during the year following the divorce.
Jessie had spent that year wondering why Mom preferred these idiots to her father. To her it wasn’t even a close call. Then Roger Nolan came along and he always had a smile and something nice to say. The next thing Jessie knew, he and Mom got married and four years passed, most of it stuck in Nebraska, where Roger worked.
As the bus rumbled beneath her, Jessie thought of those four years, of the isolation she’d felt—a city girl trapped in a place so flat and wide and open that it had the opposite effect on her than you might expect.
She’d felt trapped. Trapped in a town she hated, a school she despised, surrounded by kids who treated her like a freak of nature. She’d wanted so much for her father to come and rescue her, but he was missing in action at the time. A voice on the telephone. A signature on some cookie-cutter birthday card.
But who knows, maybe it was all her fault. Right after the divorce she had grown cold and distant toward him, blaming him for her mother’s tears, for his inability to make her happy. When he tried to contact her, Jessie had closed him out, refusing to see or even speak to him.
After a while, he stopped trying—which, of course, angered Jessie even more, because he’d given up too easily. The bastard.
Why did life have to be so freaking complicated all the time? Why couldn’t it be like TV, where everything was wrapped up nice and neat in a single half hour?
It just wasn’t fair.
“One good thing came from moving in with your dad,” Laura said.
“Yeah?”
“We finally get to ride the bus together.”
Jessie grinned and squeezed her hand. She and Laura had been close before the move to Nebraska and picked up right where they had left off the moment Jessie came back.
They grew silent now, Laura opening her journal as Jessie watched the afternoon traffic buzz by. The bus chugged toward its next stop, the low roar of the engine vibrating against her seat.
Bus rides always lulled her to sleep, and today was no exception. She closed her eyes, feeling the vibration play against her back and thighs, letting herself be carried into the world of the half-awake, where dreamlike images flitted through her mind.
Matt Weber was there, walking with her hand in hand toward Bellanova. They talked
and laughed and the next thing Jessie knew she was pressed against a wall as Matt kissed her, his hot tongue scraping against her teeth. She kissed him back, feeling a tingle between her legs, wanting him to put his hand there. Then he pulled away and smiled at her.
Only it wasn’t Matt.
It was the guy from the Jeep. Mr. Ponytail.
Jessie jolted awake in her seat. Where the heck had that come from?
Then, a sudden, odd chill ran through her and all at once she felt as if she was being watched.
No, it was more than that.
Something more … invasive.
She turned, glancing out her window toward the left rear of the bus, surprised to find the maroon Suburban rolling alongside it.
Mr. Ponytail was behind the wheel.
Looking straight at her.
Smiling.
Jessie snapped her head back around and faced front, her whole body rigid with fear. Her stomach lurched.
What the hell? What was he doing here?
Karen and Kathy sat behind her, completely oblivious to her sudden alarm. Karen leaned forward in her seat. “You guys hear about Steve Hugard?”
Laura, who had been writing in her journal, swiveled her head in their direction. “No, what?”
“He grabbed Mrs. Lehman’s boobs in Health today.”
Laura’s eyes widened. “He what?”
“Right in front of the whole class.”
“Oh, my God, what a perv.”
“Yeah. They’re trying to keep it a big secret, but Skinner kicked his butt right outta school. Told him he has to get therapy before they’ll let him back.”
“I never could stand that jerk,” Laura said. “Guys like him give me the creeps.”
I know the feeling, Jessie thought.
Through her window she heard the muffled whine of an engine accelerating. Glancing sideways, she saw the Suburban pull up parallel to her. She didn’t dare chance a longer look, but she was sure Mr. Ponytail was still smiling at her.
Go away, she wanted to scream.
Leave me alone.
She thought back to this morning, to that funky old Jeep he was driving. Had he been following her to school? Was today the first time, or was he stalking her?
Kiss Her Goodbye (A Thriller) Page 5