Cyclone Rumble

by J.P. Voss

  14

  I drove the 300 miles, from Vegas to Venice, in less than four hours. My radio didn’t work, so I played the drum solo from In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida on the steering wheel the whole way. When I got to my cousin’s place, nobody was home, so I sat on the curb and waited. The mid-day sun started to burn my neck, so I borrowed the Stingray bicycle parked on Vince’s back patio and cruised over to the boardwalk.

  I spotted my cousin and Harper down by the ocean. They were playing catch with a Frisbee. Harper chased the plastic saucer through the shallow surf like she didn’t have a care in the world. When the disk landed beyond her reach, and got sucked into a wave, Vince dove in and saved it.

  I dropped the bike and started running toward Harper, who was looking out to sea. I called out, and she twirled toward me. Harper’s sun washed hair swung wild in the ocean breeze and multicolored highlights shimmered against the sky. Harper looked like the quintessential bohemian beach bunny. Cocoa butter brown, with ultramarine eyes, she was wearing a light cotton peasant blouse and Levi cutoffs.

  She gave me one of the best hugs I’d ever had. Harper held on like she meant it, and when she let go, I had to hold back a tear.

  She said, “Don’t worry Duffy. Everything is going to be all right.”

  “Nobody calls me Duffy.”

  “I’ll call you Duffy if I want to young man.” Harper touched my cheek with her palm, and then brushed back my hair with her fingers. “We need to get you cleaned up.”

  I was trying not to look at Harper’s cleavage when Vince came running up and slugged me in the arm, as hard as he could. While I recoiled from the shot, my cousin stood there grinning. Burnt black by the sun, with a mischievous smile and the devil’s green eyes, Vince Hamilton was the king of the beach bums. Dripping wet, he bent over and started to shake his curly blond locks like a dog.

  Harper and I backed away from the spray. We looked at each other and started to laugh. Suddenly, something seemed out of place.

  “You don’t know my cousin,” I said. “How’d you find Vince?”

  “He found me.”

  “Where?”

  “At your apartment.”

  “How’d you find it? Nobody but Vince knows our new address.”

  “I knew you moved back to San Pedro. When I called the operator, she didn’t have a listing, but she gave me a number to call at the phone company’s administrative offices. They said a Morgan Allison had placed an order for new service, but hadn’t been there the day the installer showed up. She was nice enough to give me your new address. I was knocking on the door Thursday evening when Vince pulled up on his motorcycle.”

  A lifeguard wearing an official looking uniform shirt drove by in his jeep. He stared at us, and it made me feel uneasy. What if the cops followed me?

  “We need to get out of here,” I said. “We shouldn’t be standing out here in the open.”

  Vince started laughing. “What are you talking about man? Did you smoke some grass again? I thought you swore off the Devils Weed.”

  “I did—you smoke enough for both of us.” I asked Harper, “You didn’t tell him?”

  “Tell me what?” Vince asked.

  Harper said, “We had a little problem in Barstow.”

  Some young punk smoking a filtered cigarette was eyeballing the Schwinn. I started running toward the bike. I turned and ran backwards. “You and Harper meet me back at your place. Take the long way. Watch out for cops, and make sure you aren’t followed.”

  Vince shook his head, like he thought I was losing it. “Are you having an acid flashback or something? Shit man. You only tripped out once.”

  I flipped him off and spun around, running toward the bike. After I hopped on the Stingray, I looked south. Harper had Vince by the arm, and she was leading him down the boardwalk. I went the wrong way on purpose, rode a mile out of my way, and doubled back.

  I came the back way down the alley and stopped behind Vince’s duplex. I lifted the Stingray over a five-foot block wall, and then jumped over, landing on the back patio. When I tapped on the sliding-glass-door, Vince pulled back the bed-sheet curtain.

  He slid open the glass door and yelled, “Watch out, behind you, it’s the cops.”

  I spun around and Vince started laughing.

  I shoved him out of the way. “You’re a real riot—you know that.” I stepped past him into the apartment. “You’re going to shit your pants when I tell you what happened.”

  I grabbed a beer out of the fridge and went into the living room. Vince’s place was a standard issue crash pad. A couple of used sofas faced each other, a crusty hookah sat on a coffee table made out of egg crates, and black-light posters adorned every wall. I sunk into one of the sofas and powered down my frosty cold Budweiser. Vince sat on the other end of the sofa. Harper came out of the restroom and took a seat across from me.

  I asked Harper, “Where’s the money?”

  “Don’t worry; it’s safe.”

  Vince asked, “What money?”

  “This is going to blow your mind.”

  I told Vince, and Harper, what happened the morning of the robbery. Then I told Vince how Harper and me watched Morgan run from the cops. And how she found the money in his truck, and how I left the money with Harper when I went to look for Morgan. Then I told them how I got busted and spent almost two weeks in San Bernardino County, and how Morgan got busted by the Feds, and how the cops and the FBI were following me.

  “No shit.”

  “No shit,” I replied. “The local cops couldn’t hold me, but the FBI has Morgan. And they aren’t letting him go.” I asked Harper, “How the heck did you get away?”

  Harper had that twinkle in her eye that all girls get when they think they’re smarter than you. She said, “A little while after you left me that day, I took the money over to your old trailer. I remembered seeing you hide a house key by the front door one time. You and Morgan left Barstow in such a big hurry, I assumed it was still there. It was, so I went inside and hid the money in a bedroom closet. When I walked out the door, two police cars came to a screeching stop in front of my trailer. Naturally, I stepped back inside. I peeked through a window and watched while the police searched my trailer. I don’t know what their problem was. They didn’t have to smash the trailer door like they did. And the way they roughed you up. That was completely uncalled for. After the other CHP officer showed up and took you away in handcuffs, I snuck out the back door. I used the neighbor’s stepladder to get over the fence.”

  “How’d you get out of Barstow?”

  “Before I left the trailer, I found an old safety razor in the bathroom and cut my Levi’s off so they were real racy short shorts. I took off my bra and opened my top so I was showing as much cleavage as I could muster. Then I ratted my hair.”

  “Why?”

  “I was trying to look like a prostitute. They use to come around Tubby’s truck stop and the police would shoo them away. They would always come back. I asked one of them why, and she told me—‘Because the drivers get lonely, and a lonely man can be a girl’s best friend’. When I went over the fence, there were a dozen great big trucks idling out on the street waiting for the police to open up the highway. I found a driver with his window rolled down. I told the man I was a working girl, and I desperately needed to get out of the Barstow area, away from all the police.”

  Harper looked a little embarrassed. “I feel bad. I really led him on. He was sure he was going to have his way with me. The old guy got so jazzed; he jumped down out of the truck and loaded the backpack. When he lifted the heavy thing into the sleeper cargo hold, I thought he was going to throw out his back. After I got in the truck, he wanted me to have oral sex with him right then and there. Can you believe it?”

  Vince and me looked at each other. We could believe it.

  She said, “I reminded the driver that I couldn’t do anything with the police crawling all over the place, and I reassured him that I would take care of him later. When I told the
old guy the police would hassle him if they found a girl like me in his truck, he let me hide in the sleeper. A few minutes after I crawled in the back, another driver came over the CB. He said the roadblock was breaking up, and the Highway Patrol was letting everyone leave. Once he started driving, everything went pretty well. He was a nice guy as long as he had his hands on the steering wheel. When he pulled into a shopping center parking lot in Pomona, I had to disappoint him.”

  “What happened?”

  “He wanted to collect his fare. At first, I told the man what a sweetheart he was for giving me a ride, and how I was going to show him a real good time, but first I needed to get some condoms out of my backpack. I got down out of the truck, and he popped the latch on the cargo door. I pulled out the backpack and started acting flustered. He wanted to know what was wrong, and I told him ‘I just started’. He didn’t understand at first. So I told him it was ‘That time of the month’, and I needed to find a restroom quick. When I walked away, he called me a fuckin’ Lot Lizard. I didn’t think that was very nice.”

  “I can’t believe you got away,” I said. “The San Bernardino Sheriffs are looking all over the place for you—and the FBI. What the hell happened to you; where the hell have you been?”

  “After my narrow escape from the horny truck driver, I called the CHP from a payphone. I told the desk sergeant that a friend of mine had been arrested in Barstow for drunk driving, and he told me to call the San Bernardino County Jail. When I called the county jail and asked if you’d been admitted, they gave me the total run around. I waited a half hour and called back. It was more of the same. I tried a few more times, and I finally gave up. It was so frustrating. They wouldn’t tell me anything.”

  “Yeah—cops working the jail can be real pricks.”

  “It was starting to get late, so I took a taxi to the Greyhound Station. I caught the bus to Los Angeles. It was late when I got to L.A., so I found a discrete hotel near the bus depot and got some sleep. The next day, I took a cab to San Pedro. You weren’t home, so I took the local bus north on Coast Highway. I found a weekly rental in Manhattan Beach. My neighbor is a real sweetheart who lets me borrow his scooter anytime I want. I’ve been coming by your place every few days ”

  “What did you do with the money?”

  “It’s safe.”

  “How much money?” Vince asked.

  “Seventy pounds worth,” Harper said.

  “Where is it?” I asked. “How do you know it’s safe?”

  “I know it’s safe because I shipped it to my stepfather in Dallas.”

  “You’re kidding?”

  “Don’t worry. The police won’t be able to connect us.”

  “Yes they will.”

  “No they won’t,” she said, kind of snotty. “O’Neal isn’t my legal last name, and it isn’t my mother’s, or my stepfather’s either.”

  “I know. It’s Bradley, Harper Lee Bradley.”

  Harper looked shocked. Vince looked confused. I told Harper I’d talked to Dessie at the diner. And how that led me to Vegas. I told them about my run-in with Harper’s husband at the rodeo, and how the San Bernardino Detectives found out who she really is. And that they planned on contacting her parents in Dallas ASAP.

  Vince said, “I heard a car cruise by out in the alley.”

  “You’re stoned.”

  “True. But I’m not a lightweight like you; I can handle my dope.” Vince got up and moved out of the living room and into the dinning area. He flipped the latch on the sliding-glass-door and slid it open. “I’m not shittin’ you man. I heard a car in the alley.”

  “Please sit down Vince,” Harper said. “You’re starting to make Duffy nervous.”

  “I’m not nervous. I’m scared shitless. You should be too. The cops are going to trace the money back to you.” My mind went blank for a second; I focused on one thought. “You need to call your stepfather and tell him to lie for you.”

  “He won’t do that.”

  “Probably doesn’t matter,” I said as all the oxygen left my body. “The San Bernardino Sheriffs have probably already talked to your parents. I’ll bet the Dallas Police are at your mom and dad’s house right now. They’ve probably already found the money.”

  “Don’t worry Duffy. The police won’t find the money.”

  “Where is it?”

  “It’s in a very safe place. My stepfather is an executive for a large insurance company in Dallas. His office is on the top floor of a twenty story high-rise building. They have their own mailroom. I shipped the package care of my stepfather, Steven Bradley. I put special instructions for it to be stored until Mr. Bradley calls for it. Under the declaration of contents, I wrote: Plaster Nativity Scene. It’s safe and sound in the basement of the Lone Star Insurance Company. And will be until Christmas.”

  “I won’t be alive by Christmas.”

  “Don’t be silly,” Harper said. “Now that I know you’re safe, we can settle this thing once and for all.”

  “Nothing is going to be settled until I give the money to Lawson.”

  “Who’s that?”

  “Morgan didn’t pull the robbery alone. The other guys who were in on it want their money. They know I saw the robbery, and they’re sure I know where the money is. I didn’t tell them about you, because they’re animals, and I didn’t want them coming after you. I’ve been holding them off for the last few days, but these guys don’t have much patience. I’m supposed to meet them at ten o’clock tonight, in front of the roller coaster at the Long Beach Pike. If I don’t have the money, I’m going to get my ass kicked. Morgan wants me to give them the money. That’s the plan.”

  Harper said, “I have another plan.”