Unmanned

by Lois Greiman

  I thought about that for a second. “Did he ask for the keys?”

  And now he just looked confused, but it seemed like a fairly straightforward question. I wanted to shoot him just for his stupid-ass expression. “When he was dragging you toward the van. Did he ask for the keys?”

  “I don’t know. How the hell would I know? I was busy bleeding from my head. Remember? Shit, you’re such an—”

  “Did he?” I repeated, voice dropping an octave.

  There was a pause, then, “No.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Yes.”

  “Doesn’t that seem like an obvious first step if he wanted his car back?”

  “I don’t know. He loves that car like a kid. Maybe he wanted to kill me first. Get the keys later.”

  “How?”

  “What?”

  “How’s he going to get the keys if you’re…” I closed my eyes but kept the gun trained on him…kind of. “Never mind. Who else have you pissed off?”

  “No one.”

  “You know how I know that’s a lie?”

  “Damn it, Chrissy—”

  “Because I’ve met you.”

  “Put that thing down before—”

  “Talked to you,” I continued.

  “This isn’t funny.”

  “Neither was the time you locked me out of the bathroom after the Kool-Aid drinking contest. Who else wants to kill you?” I asked, squinting at him with one eye.

  “Besides you?”

  “Besides me.”

  He tilted back his head and released a long-suffering sigh. “Joey’s kind of ticked.”

  “Joey…”

  “Petras. He’s in the department with me.”

  “A firefighter?” I was surprised. Pete was a firefighter down to his asbestos underwear. And those firefighters always look so chummy…at least on the calendars.

  “Yeah.”

  I twisted my mind away from the thought of calendars, even though sometimes they don’t wear much more than suspenders. “What’d you do to piss him off?”

  “Nothing.”

  “What else?”

  He exhaled dramatically, slumped over to the couch, and flopped diagonally onto the cushions, head draped over the armrest. “Charlene…” He shook his head. “She is so damned hot. Swear to God, you could cook an egg on her—”

  “Please.” I closed my eyes. I wanted to keep threatening him, but his current position was awfully discouraging. It didn’t seem right to kill him while he was just lying there looking pathetic. I let the pistol drop to arm’s length. “Please tell me you didn’t seduce Petras’s wife.”

  “No! No.” He sat up abruptly. “She seduced me. I swear it.”

  I groaned and plopped into the La-Z-Boy.

  “Besides, I didn’t even sleep with her.”

  “Right.” I dropped my head against the cushion. “So it’s all just a big misunderstanding.”

  “Yeah. It is.”

  “I should have shot you while I was in the mood.”

  “It is,” he repeated.

  I sat up, glaring. “So you never slept with her.”

  “Well…”

  “God help me.” I dropped my head into one hand. I was holding the Glock with the other…just in case I came to my senses.

  “Well, technically, we were in bed, but we didn’t do nothing.”

  “Just tired?”

  “Well, no.” He grinned. “We was gonna go at it like adolescent squirrels. I mean, shit, this chick was smoking—”

  I put the gun to my temple in one smooth motion.

  He stopped.

  “Honest to God,” I said. “If you tell me how hot she was, you’re going to have to clean up the mess.”

  He scowled, then shook his head. “You’re so damn dramatic.” Sliding forward, he took the gun from my hand, stood up, and put it on the end table. “Anyway, Joey walked in on us before—”

  “I don’t want to hear this.”

  “Before,” he repeated, raising his voice, “we did anything.”

  I shrugged, made a face. “So everything’s okay.”

  “Sure.” He emulated the shrug and the face. “Why not? Hell, she still had her panties on. A thong. Red with little—”

  “Sometimes I fantasize that you were adopted.”

  He grinned. “Mom says she was in labor with me for fourteen hours. Reminds me every time she irons my jeans.”

  “She irons your jeans?”

  “Yeah. Not Holly, though.” He whistled low. “She doesn’t even own an iron. Burned herself once or something. Guess I’ll have to learn to—”

  “Maybe I was adopted.”

  He shook his head. “Saw you when you come home. You were wearing the same ugly-ass expression then that you got now.”

  “I’m sorry. Is my mood ruining your day?”

  He bounced to his feet. “Hey, I know I screwed up with Petras. It was a dumb-ass thing to do. You think I don’t know that?”

  “I do sort of wonder.”

  He stared out my window. It was nightmarishly dark beyond the feeble light of my security lamp. “Been thinking about…” He paused. “…about what it will be like to have a daughter.”

  I remembered now that he was going to be a dad. It made me want to run out and buy a package deal of tubal ligations.

  “She’ll grow up. Get boobs.” He swallowed and made a face I’d never seen him make while referring to the female anatomy. “Get married.” He was scowling at his imaginings. “Probably to some asshole who…” His mouth twitched. “…who will cheat on her.” He sighed. “Then I’ll have to kill him.” His tone was introspective, making me think he was maybe growing up, but I yanked myself out of that fantasy before it could get me killed.

  “When did this all happen?” I asked.

  “What?”

  “The Joey Petras debacle. How long ago?”

  He shook his head. “Half a year, but Joey’s still cranked.”

  “Go figure. So you were dating Holly then?”

  He wobbled his head. “Off and on.”

  “Did she think it was on?”

  He plopped back down on the couch. “Naw. She didn’t want to get serious. Holly, she’s…” He scowled. “She’s funny. Says she’s crazy about me ’cuz I don’t have a fit if she goes out with her friends and I can make her laugh even when she’s barfing up her breakfast. Which happened a lot a while back, and of course I’m great in—”

  I put my finger to my head in lieu of the Glock.

  He flapped a dismissive hand in my general direction and continued. “Anyway, she says I’m the opposite of her tight-ass ex who watched her every move, but…”

  “But she still wants someone who doesn’t forget she exists every time she steps out of the house?”

  “I know I fucked up,” he said. “I just didn’t think…”

  “What?”

  “Didn’t think Joey would take it this far. Shit, I fed you sheep droppings and you never tried to kill me.”

  “Until now.”

  “Till now,” he conceded.

  “So you think it was him…on my stoop?” I stifled a shiver.

  “Joey? No.” He shook his head and sighed. “But his old man owns a string of clubs.”

  I stared at him, not comprehending. “Clubs?”

  “Exotic dancers, that sort of thing. Got a couple in L.A.,” he added.

  The truth was beginning to dawn on me. “You think his father might have paid one of his employees to avenge his son?”

  “Them bouncers ain’t exactly clean as Sunday laundry. You know what I mean?”

  I picked up the receiver, dialed 411, and asked for Chicago, Illinois.

  He scowled. “Who you calling?”

  I ignored him and spoke clearly into the phone. “Petras,” I said. “Joseph Petras.”

  19

  If men weren’t necessary in the procreation process, they’d have gone the way of the dodo bird long ago.

&n
bsp; —Cindy Peichel, environmental guru

  “WHAT THE HELL are you doing?” Pete hissed, but the operator was already rattling off the number.

  I wrote it down on a rumpled napkin, hung up the phone, and handed him the misshapen numerals. “Call him,” I said.

  “What?”

  “Call Petras.”

  “And say what? ‘Shit, man, I’m sorry your old lady couldn’t keep her hands off me’?”

  For a second I was tempted, almost uncontrollably, to knock him over the head with the phone. I’d tried it on others with favorable results.

  “You’re going to call him,” I said, “and apologize.”

  “You’re off your rocker ’bout a mile and a half.”

  “You’re going to call him,” I said, “or I swear to God I’ll tell Rivera you stole the Corvette from—”

  He snorted, but I raised my voice and continued.

  “—from a man named Bill Springer, whom I will subsequently call to inform about the whereabouts of said beloved Corvette.”

  He stared at me. “I don’t know how the hell you got so mean.”

  “Think livestock,” I said, and dialed Petras’s number. The phone rang on the other end. I handed it to Pete.

  He took the receiver grudgingly.

  “Yeah.” I could hear Petras’s muffled voice on the far end of the line.

  Pete shuffled his feet, shoved a hand in the back pocket of his jeans. “Hey, Joey,” he said.

  There was a full five seconds of silence before the phone went dead. Pete glanced at the receiver, then handed it back to me.

  I shook my head and hit REDIAL.

  He stared at me and swore with impressive sentiment, but didn’t hang up.

  The phone rang four times, then: “God damn it, McMullen, I should fucking kill you.”

  I could hear Petras pretty clearly now.

  Pete looked a little pale.

  “Apologize,” I said, but Joey wasn’t giving him a lot of time. In fact, there wasn’t really a pause between the curse words and the threats of dismemberment, some of which were fairly creative. But I was merciless. I took the cell out of my purse, holding it up like a weapon of mass destruction. “I’ve got Rivera on speed dial,” I said.

  Peter John gritted his teeth and ran splayed fingers through his hair. “You’re right,” he said, talking over Petras’s rant. “I’m a shit.”

  There was a moment of silence, then, “And an asshole.”

  Pete nodded, sighed. “Yeah. And a fucktard.” What? He already knew the word? Damn it! “Sorry.”

  “And a damned head case. What the hell were you thinking? You know I come home for lunch.”

  Peter dropped into the nearest chair. “Yeah.”

  “Should have shot your damn balls off soon as I walked in the door.”

  He sloughed lower. “I would have if she was my wife. She’s—”

  I could hear the word “smoking” about to launch from his lips and poised my finger over my cell’s 4.

  Pete’s mouth remained open for a moment, then, “…your wife,” he finished. “She’s your wife.” He exhaled. “You’d have had every right to smoke my—”

  “Not anymore.”

  “Huh?”

  The sigh came from the other end of the line now. “I threw her out, and all her crap with her. Shoes, spider plant, and fucking eyelash curler.”

  “No shit?” Pete sat up straight, eyes suddenly bright, mouth starting to quirk at the corners. “So she’s single?”

  I stared at him. The initial grin suggested I was going to need more firepower than a cell phone and an idle threat. I reached out and slapped him on the side of the head.

  Pete’s brows lowered. His mouth turned down. “I mean…” He sloughed back again. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “Well, you sure as hell should be. Girl has an ass like a time bomb. Second Chico hired her, I couldn’t think of nothing else. Shoulda known she’d bag every loose bastard that came along.”

  “Loose…There were others?”

  He snorted. “Goddamn amazing you could get mattress time.”

  Pete looked peeved. “She told me she was only doing me ’cuz I was so—”

  I laid the gun carefully on my lap.

  He opened his mouth, closed it, glanced out the window. “Listen, Joey, I’m sorry. I ain’t been much of a friend.”

  “No shit!”

  He looked at the gun in my lap, scowled, and sighed. “But my sister ain’t got nothing to do with this.”

  There was a moment of silence, then, “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “She’s a royal pain in the ass,” he explained, scowling at me, “holds a grudge like a damned pit bull, but—”

  “Have you been sparring without headgear again?”

  “You want to take a shot at me, man, you got a right, but leave Christopher out of this.”

  Petras laughed, long and satisfied, before pausing. I could imagine him smiling on the other end of the phone. “So someone’s finally punching you full of holes, huh, McMullen?”

  “Call off your dogs,” he said. “I’ll meet you—”

  “It wasn’t me.”

  “It ain’t going to look good when the LAPD finds out your bouncers are taking potshots at the locals.”

  “Bouncers…” He paused, managing to put two and two together. “Pop sold the L.A. clubs.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Too hard to manage them from here. Sold them to some developer in Inglewood. Gonna be some spa where they give mud baths and facials and shit.”

  Pete made a face. “No kidding?”

  Silence stretched out for a second.

  “So you’re in L.A., huh?”

  For a moment I thought Pete might give him the address and possibly directions, but apparently even reason-challenged dimwits can think if they’re shot at enough times.

  “Hiding out at your sister’s,” Joey said, and chuckled. “Bob said you were headed down there. Hey, how’s she doing? They still call her Pork Chop?”

  “Naw,” Peter said, and glanced at me, seeming to think. “Now they call her Dirty Harry.”

  “I like the sound of that. She married?”

  Pete snorted. I wondered what it would cost to get a silencer for the Glock.

  “Shacking up?”

  “Hang up the phone,” I said, and after a few more bean-headed comments, he did.

  I stared at him. He shook his head. “Can’t believe he kicked her out. Charlene…” He said her name with some reverence. “When things get slow at the station, we pin her picture up in the can. Shit.” He slouched back again, stretching out his legs. “Joey’s right; she’s got an ass could make a boob man reconsider his—”

  “Who was it, then?” I snapped.

  He narrowed his eyes by way of question, drawn from his intellectual ponderings.

  “Besides stealing a Corvette and cuckolding a friend,” I said, “who did you screw over?”

  “Cuckolding?” He grinned.

  I gave him a dry look. “It’s amazing you’ve survived this long.”

  “You’ve got to loosen up, sis.”

  “Who else?”

  He shook his head, but the movement bobbled to a halt. His expression became a little pained.

  “What?”

  “Some guys don’t have no sort of sense of humor whatsoever.”

  I braced myself. “What specifically do they fail to find amusing?”

  “Shit!” He leaned forward, his eager expression reminding me a little of Harlequin, without the sloppy-jowled charm. “It was the funniest thing. See, Dehn’s got this ’71 Camaro Z28. Rally wheels, Detroit locker rear end. Chrome center caps with—”

  “Dehn?”

  “Name’s actually Daryl. Daryl Dehn. He was a bowling buddy.”

  “Of course.”

  “Oh!” He shook his head and gave me a disapproving look. “Don’t go getting all snotty. When we was kids you woulda given up dessert
for some guy to take you bowling. Anyhow, he’s got this car he’s always bragging about. Like he built it himself from scrap metal and a rubber tree. Fucking Henry Ford or something. Truth is, he don’t know shit about engines. But he’s got to act like some Harley stud. Steroids, pumping iron, the works. Overcompensation’s what it is.”

  I think I looked at him as if he’d just sprouted an extra head.

  “I watched Frasier,” he said, then, “anyway, I guess he was a scrawny little runt when he was a kid. Asthma or something. So he’s always saying how his Camaro is better than my Mustang. And fuck, everyone knows the Mustang’s got twice the—”

  I held up a weary hand. “I haven’t had a cigarette for three days, you’re an ass, and I have a gun.”

  He stopped, mouth open, then shut it and grinned.

  Which may be the only reason he’s still alive today. It’s hard to kill a guy who thinks everything’s funny. “Okay, the kicker is, I tucked a little smoke bomb under his hood. Stuffed it under the coil wire by the distributor cap.”

  I stared, uncomprehending.

  “See, it doesn’t do no damage, just smokes like hell on fire. But Daryl…” He chuckled. “…he thinks his engine is about to blow, so he pulls off on the shoulder like a pussy, gets it hauled to the shop, and damn—here’s the funniest part—them geniuses at AutoMart can’t figure it out, neither.” He shook his head. “Bunch of college boys sitting around scratching their asses. Can’t let nobody think they don’t know a carburetor from a lug nut, so they tear the whole damn engine apart, only to find my little bomb tucked up tighter than a freshman’s—”

  “You ruined his car?”

  “Ruined it? Hell, no.” He waved a hand at me. “It’s fine.” He chuckled. “It just cost him a thousand bucks to figure that out.”

  “And he knew you were to blame?”

  He thought about that for a second. Either that or he had indigestion. “Could be he guessed.”

  “It seems a little drastic for him to try to kill you over it.”

  “Yeah, well…” He squirmed a little. “…there was that other part.”

  I felt old and kind of crunchy. “What other part?”

  He cleared his throat. “See, he was so damned worried about his car, he told the mechanics to call soon as they learned something. Day or night, didn’t make no difference.”