Simple Intent

by Linda Sands

  “And look.” Stacy lifted the doll’s skirt. When JR wasn’t sure what he was seeing, she pulled at the velcro straps and revealed Malibu Barbie’s bra and crotch-less panties. Not exactly the kind of outfit you’d find on the toy store shelf.

  “Now, that’s my kinda doll.”

  Reilly said, “One more for my friends.”

  Barbie filled the men’s glasses, leaned way over when she gave the drink to White Shoes. “I love a man in Bucs, buck-naked.” She winked, held up her glass to clink his. They downed the shot, eyes locked.

  Reilly couldn’t believe this. Here he was out in the boonies with a couple of mobsters, both of them looking for the same guy, for what he figured were very different reasons.

  He’d lucked out, sneaking in here to use the phone while the bozos were busy. Sailor hadn’t believed him at first, then Ken got on the phone and there weren’t any more questions, except, “How long can you stall them?’

  The ladies were pretty sweet, once you got past the, I’ve-been-hurt-by-my-asshole-of-a-husband-and-the-world-in-general-so-don’t-fuck-with-me facade. Yeah, after that, they were really pretty cool.

  So when he told them that these guys had taken him on a trip he hadn’t packed for, if you get my meaning. they understood completely and told him not to worry. They could handle these city boys.

  Reilly had to admit he sort of liked the show they were putting on, and from the way JR was dancing with Stacy, he was enjoying it, too. It was the other guy, White Shoes, who worried him. Not the footwear so much, but what he had strapped to the ankle above the Bucs. And the guy had no patience. Bad combination.

  But Reilly figured you have to work with what you got and these are the cards he was dealt. He was just hoping that Sailor had a few deuces up her sleeve. He threw back his shot of water and slurred, “Who’s going to dance with me?

  “Come on, Hi. We’re almost there.”

  Gina figured there was no use in telling him the truth. They were so far from almost there, it wasn’t funny. But she was hoping against all hope that somebody would drive down this forsaken road and save her from thinking about the alternatives. So she hitched up her grip on Berger and repeated, “Come on, Hi.” Like it was a prayer.

  CHAPTER 22

  Ready or Not, Here I Come

  SAILOR told Banning, “It’s going to be fine. Jeremy’s great. Really.”

  She wasn’t sure who she was trying to convince. After receiving Reilly’s rushed phone call from the bar, she called Banning. When he said they should go up there alone, no cops, it had been Sailor’s idea to bring Jeremy in. But Banning knew him better and there was something he wasn’t saying.

  Banning slowed the Jag. “You sure you know where we’re going?”

  “With these directions,” she waved a piece of paper, “I could find it in the dark.”

  “You’re going to have to.” He looked at the sky. “How about in the rain?’

  Sailor had seen the approaching clouds and hoped they’d out-run the storm.

  They pulled up in front of a dilapidated brick warehouse. A graffiti artist had spray-painted a large red tongue on the wall over the door with drops of saliva dripping toward the sidewalk. Jeremy appeared under the tongue dressed in camouflage. He looked like a renegade action figure.

  When he tossed two heavy bags into the backseat of the car and slid in, Sailor didn’t want to know what was in them, or what he had been doing in that ramshackle building. All she wanted to know was that he was on their side.

  “Okay, enough.” White Shoes pulled away from Barbie’s grip and called to JR on the dance floor. “Don’t get too involved Romeo, we’re leaving.”

  Stacy whined over JR’s shoulder, “You party pooper.” She pressed herself into JR and ran her tongue into JR’s ear.

  White Shoes grimaced.

  “Here.” The tough blonde, Ken, held the vodka. “One for the road.”

  He hesitated. What the fuck was he doing here? He was supposed to be finding Berger, not watching JR dry-hump some backwoods slut in a Barbie bar. Christ! He needed a new life. If he ever got this job done for Gallo, that would be it.

  “Hold it right there!”

  “What the fuck?” White Shoes spun around.

  A cop stood in the doorway. At least he thought it was a cop. The halogen lights had come on outside. They cast an orange shadowy halo around the guy who was short—midget short—and holding something really long. From the looks of it, it was pretty damn heavy.

  Instinctively, everyone raised his hands, even the girls. White Shoes took a step.

  “I said, hold it right there.”

  White Shoes stopped, patted the air in an easy-there-boy way, and put on his biggest smile.

  Stacy pulled her head out of JR’s armpit and squinted. “Duane? Is that you? What the hell are you doing?”

  She crossed the room, rumpled and swaying. “Does Melinda know you’ve got that thing?” She snatched the long-barreled revolver from the tiny cop’s hand then walked over to the bar and laid it next to the vodka.

  Her lips were moving, but no sound came out as she made herself a drink, booze sloshing out of the glass and onto the gun. Reilly thought it looked too big to be real, like a prop for a Clint Eastwood movie.

  Barbie put her hands down and said, “I’ve got to pee.”

  The men watched her departing ass and were caught looking when she turned around at the restroom door.

  “Close the door, Duane,” Stacy said. “You’re letting the bugs in.”

  Duane stepped inside, closed the door behind him then glanced in the direction of the restroom, then back at his gun on the bar.

  White Shoes returned to his stool, figured he’d play this one out. “Buy you a drink, Officer? A soda, or something?”

  The cop shifted his weight from foot to foot, took another look toward the back, then said, “I need to talk to the owner of the white van.”

  When no one answered, he jerked his thumb over his shoulder, hitched his pants up and sniffed. “The white van, at the pump? There seems to have been some misunderstanding with the bill.”

  He flipped open his notebook and read, “I told the guy it was twenty-seven fifty. He gave me six dollars and fifteen cents.” Duane looked at White Shoes. “Is that right?”

  White Shoes shot JR a look. JR shoved his hands into his pockets and seemed real interested in Geisha Barbie and her sushi tray.

  White Shoes shook his head. “Sorry about that, Officer. Here.” He reached for his wallet. Let me fix that.”

  The cop held his hand up. “Easy there, just keep your hands where I can see them.”

  White Shoes chuckled, “What? How am I going to pay our bill, if I don’t put my hand in my pocket?”

  The cop squeezed up his face and went back to shifting his weight from foot to foot.

  “Well…”

  “Jesus-fucking-Christ, Duane.” Ken stood up, reached into White Shoe’s pockets and pulled out car keys and a wallet. She snatched a twenty and a one, slapped the keys and wallet on the bar then reached over and grabbed the gun with her other hand. She stomped toward the door where Duane stood.

  The gun was slippery with vodka and when Ken tried to change her grip on the barrel to hand Duane the money she dropped the gun. It went off just as Barbie exited the bathroom drying her hands on a paper towel. The bullet caught her right above the pubic bone and exited clean under her rib cage, spraying blood on School Teacher Barbie and Surfer Ken.

  JR spun round, suddenly sober. “What the fuck?’ He looked down at Barbie, bleeding and moaning on the dance floor and said it again with an echo from Reilly at the bar, “What the fuck?”

  Their ears were ringing as a cop burst through the back door, dropped to the floor and rolled, yelling and firing wild shots that sent everyone running.

  Duane, crouched by the jukebox with a hand over his head yelled, “Marks! Cease firing! Cease firing!”

  One of the stray bullets hit the jukebox making a selection
and a volume adjustment. Metallica blared—all wailing guitars and angst.

  Stacy screamed from behind the bar, “I don’t wanna die! I don’t wanna die!” over and over again.

  JR yelled something in English about his Mama and that he was sorry, then switched to Italian and half-remembered prayers.

  The shooting stopped. Stacy was still screaming. It was sweet music compared to the warped blare of Metallica. Reilly figured this was as good a time as any. He patted the bar top, found White Shoes’ keys, made a run for the stockroom and the rear door that the gun-happy cop had crashed through.

  Reilly was three miles down the road before anyone noticed he was missing, and three miles after that he saw Gina. He almost missed her, and would have too, if she hadn’t been squatting by the road. It was the whiteness of her bare ass and the way she scrambled up so quickly to cover it that turned his head. He slowed down, pumping the cranky brakes.

  Gina ran up the road now, waving her arms and shouting, “Stop! Please!”

  Reilly leaned over to roll down the window as she ran up to the van.

  She said, “It’s you.”

  He smiled, a faint attempt to assure her.

  “What are you doing out here?”

  “Need some help?”

  Gina said, “Uh, yeah, it’s Hi. He’s been shot, and he’s… not well…”

  Her voice trailed off as she turned toward the woods, her arm in front of her like a divining rod. “He’s right here. At least he was. Hi?”

  “Hang on.”

  Reilly pulled the van off the road, left the headlights on hoping they’d help a little. He climbed down, saw the shape of Gina in the woods ahead of him. His eyes hadn’t yet adjusted to the dark. The woods were just charcoal shadows and ebony shapes.

  He stepped off the road, took two steps and was feeling around where to place his foot next when he heard a low voice. “That’s far enough, Soldier.”

  Reilly turned his head in the direction of the voice.

  “Ah-ah-ah. No funny stuff. I’ve been watching you, and the others across the ridge. Think you’re smart, do you? Going to waltz right in here and take my patrol? Well guess again, Soldier.”

  Reilly blinked, his eyes now better adjusted so that he could see Berger, down and to his left. There was something odd about the way he sat with his leg stuck out in front of him. But more than that, Berger had a gun—another fucking gun—pointed at Reilly’s face.

  Berger mouthed, “Gotcha,” then aimed the gun lower.

  Soldier? Patrol? Yeah, the guy’s not feeling well, all right. Before Reilly could figure out how to handle the wack-job under the tree, he heard Gina tromping through the undergrowth, cursing at the whipping branches.

  “Hi? Where are you? I told you I didn’t want to play hide and seek. C’mon. I got us a ride.”

  Berger followed her voice with his gun hand, then looked at Reilly and whispered, “That one of yours, Soldier?”

  Reilly thought back to all those corny war movies he’d seen as a kid. There was always a Commander, wasn’t there?

  He took a breath, and then barked, “Soldier! I command you to holster your sidearm.”

  Berger’s gaze faltered.

  Reilly turned on him, leaning into his face with as cruel a grimace as he could muster. “Are you with me Soldier?” He poked Berger in the chest. “Do you know who I am?”

  Berger’s gun hand dropped to his side.

  “I am your Commander, Soldier.”

  “Sir?’ Berger’s voice sounded tiny. “Is it you, Sir?”

  Gina crashed through the bushes. “There you are.”

  Berger snapped his head around, whipped the gun up and pointed it at Gina, who kept coming.

  Reilly yelled, “Gina! No! He’s got a gun.”

  Gina held her hands out. “Hi? What’s wrong, honey? Don’t you want to go for a drive?’ She took a step forward.

  Berger moved his gun between Reilly and Gina, and finally stopped on Reilly. “You almost had me.” He laughed. “I know you.”

  Reilly smiled lamely, playing along.

  “Hi?” Gina said, coming closer.

  Berger swung the gun to her and said, “It’s you I don’t know.” He squeezed off two rounds, hitting her chest and belly.

  Reilly saw Gina’s body jerk, her neck snap back like someone had pulled her from behind. He stumbled backward as he heard the sickening thump of Gina’s body hitting the ground. He scrambled behind a tree and held a hand over his pounding heart. He tried to control his breathing, tried to think.

  He counted to ten then called, “Berger! It’s Captain Steubing! We need you back at Base, Soldier. The General requests your presence. Where are you at, boy?”

  Reilly waited.

  “Over here, Sir.”

  Berger might have been talking to his dear mother in their sunny kitchen in Kansas, not a hint of the previous psycho-military routine. Reilly wondered how many people were in Berger’s head, and prayed to God that Berger liked the Captain.

  “I’m injured, Captain. Going to need a little help.”

  Reilly came around the tree, approached with a swagger.

  Berger looked pleased to see him. “And I sure could use some grub, Sir.”

  Reilly reached for Berger and the gun. He stashed it in the back of his pants, then hefted Berger up.

  With an arm over Reilly’s shoulders, Berger hobbled through the woods and up the slope to the road.

  At the van he started wailing, “I’m sorry, Daddy. I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean it. I didn’t mean to get hurt.”

  Reilly patted his back. “It’s okay. Come on now, son. We’re going home.” He got him into the back, gave him a jacket for a pillow and Berger was out, murmuring and crying a bit in his fitful dreams.

  Reilly fished around inside the toolboxes and crates and finally found a flashlight under the passenger seat. He followed its beam through the trampled-down brush to the place where Gina had fallen.

  If he didn’t look at the missing part of her, Reilly could almost convince himself she was resting. He ran the flashlight over Gina’s hair and scratched face. Yeah, she’s just taking a little nap in the woods. Except people don’t sleep with their eyes wide open. Reilly turned away; something silver caught his eye. He shined the flashlight at the bushes where Gina had burst through and found her backpack purse dangling from a branch. He grabbed it and headed back to the road.

  At the van, Berger was still out. Reilly hit the van’s interior light and dumped Gina’s purse on the seat. He pawed through keys, tampons, lipsticks, mints, found a few bottles of pills with Hiram Berger’s name then he hit jackpot. Cell phone.

  He powered up the phone. There was still a little juice in the battery. It beeped. Reilly looked around. No service.

  He slipped the phone in his pocket, checked out the pill bottles and selected three Ativan. He opened a can of beer from the gas station, dumped the capsules in and grabbed a bag of chips. Berger woke, murmuring and moaning about his leg, as Reilly climbed to the back. “Hey there, pal. Look what I got. A nice cold beer and some chips.”

  Berger propped himself up on an elbow, winced when he tried to move his leg. “Give me that,” he said, pointing to the beer.

  Reilly handed it over and opened the bag of chips and set it by Berger then climbed back into the driver’s seat and started the engine.

  Berger downed the beer, belched and said, “How much longer?” As if they were on a family trip.

  Reilly smiled into the rearview mirror. “We’ll be there before you know it.”

  Berger mumbled something else and shoved a handful of potato chips in his mouth, spilling some on his shirt and pants.

  Reilly started up the road, looking for a clearing. The van was all bump and rattle with the gusto of a tortoise, but it beat walking and he had a full tank.

  Hope was dangerous. Ray knew what it could do to a man. For some, it pushed them to accomplish wondrous deeds, like a magical charm. For others, it caused desp
air and desperate measures. It was what the hope was based on, more than hope itself that made the difference.

  Did a mother hope her sick child well, or did she hope for a doctor who knew the cure or the plant to yield the extract that would provide the remedy? Was hope specific, or was it better to generalize and cover all the bases?

  Ray had been down this path before, a number of times, and knew there wasn’t an easy answer. He advised his clients against stepping down the path of hope. Better to stay on the broad, well-lit road of it is, what it is.

  Just this once, Ray allowed himself the pleasure and the promise of hope. Because this time the path was wider, better traveled. This time Sailor would be his lantern.

  CHAPTER 23

  Not Anymore

  IT’S too late, Fast Eddie.”

  “They don’t call me that anymore.”

  Maria laughed. “Yeah, well maybe not to your face. Isn’t that right, Paris?’ She looked at the woman frozen behind Deluca then turned away, grabbed the cigarettes off the nightstand and took her time selecting one. She tapped it on the back of her hand then lit it and inhaled deeply.

  Deluca said, “Haven’t you heard, Maria? Those things will kill you.”

  Maria laughed. “Only if I’m lucky.” Smoke rode on her words. “How long do you think that would take, Eddie? Tell me, because I’ll smoke all day if I have to. Maybe I could just hook myself up to a machine.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I’m dying, Eddie.” Maria snubbed out the cigarette in the ashtray then walked to the bed. “Doc says I have a few months, maybe a year, if I’m lucky.” She lowered herself to the edge of the bed then leaned back on her elbows and crossed her legs. The robe fell open to her lap. “Think I’ll be lucky, Eddie?”

  “I think you’ll make a deal with the devil. You’ll outlive us all.” He looked at his watch.

  “Going somewhere?”

  “Just waiting for someone.”

  “Really? Company? Perhaps I should get dressed.”

  Deluca shook his head. “That won’t be necessary. Jeremy won’t care. Actually, the less clothes the better, I’d think.”