I stepped off the elevator, wishing I’d had one more cup of coffee, and found Frankie’s bodyguards sleeping in the visitors’ lounge. If someone had really wanted to get to Frankie, it would’ve been a piece of cake, because I sailed right past. It occurred to me that maybe the guards weren’t sent by the Outlaws to keep others out. Maybe they were there to make sure Frankie didn’t leave.
Frankie was awake, trying to force down the lukewarm breakfast the hospital was trying to palm off as food. He looked up when I walked in, and stretched to see behind me.
“They’re sleeping,” I said, answering his unasked question. “You want me to take my blouse off, or can we have a decent conversation without all the hoopla?”
Frankie still looked bad. His bruises were turning gray-green and his contusions were a rusty brown color. He tried to smile and failed, then reached into the bedside table drawer for his cigarettes and lighter.
“You can’t smoke in here,” I said.
“You think they’re really going to try and stop me?” he asked. I watched him go through the ritual of tapping the cigarette on the filter end, then sticking it in his mouth, and flicking the silver-and-turquoise lighter until the flame caught and held.
“No, I guess not,” I answered. “So when are you getting out?”
Frankie took another long hit on his cigarette and squinted at me through the haze of smoke.
“Probably tomorrow morning,” he said. “They were watching for internal bleeding.” He shifted in the bed. “So, did you hear from Denise?” he asked.
“No, nothing like that.” I pulled a chair up by his bedside. “I was here getting some blood tests run and thought I’d stop in on you.”
“Is that right?” Frankie didn’t look like he believed me.
“Well, I guess I had a couple of questions,” I said. “I mean, maybe I can help you find Denise.”
Frankie raised himself up in bed and blew smoke rings toward the ceiling.
“Maybe you can,” he said slowly. “So, ask me.”
“All right, where was Denise supposed to meet you?”
“She wasn’t supposed to meet me, she was supposed to meet Rambo, back at the clubhouse, and do the deal.”
Rambo, I thought, my favorite. The image of his boot connecting with Fluffy flashed through my head.
“Where’s the clubhouse?” I asked.
Frankie frowned. “Well, it’s not a clubhouse like the Masons or nothing, it’s a house where some of us live. Behind Tan Fannies.”
“The strip club?” Definitely two steps down from the Tiffany.
“Yeah, convenient, huh?” Frankie leered.
“You couldn’t pay me to live there, but it’s your party, I guess.”
Frankie’s features clouded over and he glanced toward the closed door to the hallway.
“I don’t know where I’m going after this. The president’s pretty pissed that Denise took off with the money. He’s not sure I didn’t have something to do with it. Rambo and some of the others think I did. They’re going to hold a tribunal when they get back from the rally in Daytona this weekend.”
“What’s a tribunal?” I asked.
“Like a biker court,” he answered. “They’ll have a trial and decide if I was involved with Denise in ripping them off or not.”
“And what if they think you were?” I asked.
“They’ll kill me,” he said simply.
“Why don’t you take off?” I asked.
Frankie laughed caustically and stubbed his cigarette out in his scrambled eggs.
“Why do you think those guys are out there?” he said. “Sierra, it isn’t the money. With the Outlaws, it’s the principle. They’d as soon kill somebody for taking five bucks as they would for taking a hundred thousand. They’ve got to make an example out of someone. If it isn’t Denise, it might be me. Hell,” he said, “I might’ve been gone a long time ago if I hadn’t wanted to stick around and try to protect her.”
“Did Denise know that?” I wondered aloud.
Frankie laughed. “She left before I could tell her. Story of my life, I guess. Something good finally happens and boom, it ends before it starts.”
“Where’s Arlo, Frankie?”
“You don’t need to worry about Arlo, Sierra. We needed to get Denise’s attention.”
“So you took him?”
Frankie glanced toward the door again. “No, that wasn’t my idea, but when the decision gets made, you got to go along with it. I’m keeping an eye on him.”
I didn’t point out that it was hard to keep track of a dog from a hospital bed. And Frankie wasn’t in any shape to influence what happened to Arlo. They seemed to be in the same sinking rowboat.
“You sure are asking a lot of questions about me and the Outlaws,” Frankie said. “Sierra, if you know where Denise is, or if you’ve heard from her, tell me and then let me handle it. Don’t go getting any ideas about saving Arlo. That would make the situation a lot worse for everyone.”
“Frankie,” I said, “I’m not stupid.”
I slipped out of Frankie’s room and past the still-sleeping bodyguards. There were worse places to be than in a hospital, I thought. There was no way I’d want to be in Frankie’s boots. The elevator slid open and I stepped inside. As the doors slowly started to close, I watched an aide pushing an empty breakfast cart down the hallway. He wore the faded blue uniform all the other aides wore, but something stood out about him. It was the slow way he moved, as if going nowhere but watching everything. He drew even with the elevator as the doors were closing and I could see his face. If I hadn’t been quite so tired, I would have sworn it was Lyle.
Something didn’t sit right with me about Frankie. There was something he’d said, something he’d done that had set alarm bells off in my head. I couldn’t quite put my finger on what it was, but something was very wrong with the picture he was painting.
Thirty
At one A.M., Saturday morning, Dennis Donlevy began to think he was in trouble. Raydean, her favorite Easter bonnet perched atop her frizzled gray hair, a yellow raincoat the only covering between her and mankind, had left her home and was singing “Onward Christian Soldiers” at the top of her lungs. To further complicate the situation, she had entered the carport, released the emergency brake on her vehicle, and was now pushing it down the slight incline of her driveway and into the street.
At 1:05 A.M., young Detective Donlevy began to panic. Raydean’s Plymouth Fury had completely blocked the road, making it impossible for young Donlevy to follow his assigned protective duties. As I smoked tires and sped off down the Lively Oaks Trailer Park Drive, Dennis Donlevy was standing in the middle of the street, screaming at an unresponsive Raydean. By the time he returned to his car and radioed for assistance, I had vanished.
At one-fifteen A.M., Denise and I were parked around the corner from Tan Fannies, watching the Outlaws’ clubhouse and trying to determine if anyone was still inside the faded wooden building.
“We look ridiculous,” Denise said, looking in the passenger-side visor mirror. “What if someone sees us?”
She was right. It was my idea to dress in black and blacken our faces. I figured we needed all the help we could get. Of course, if someone spotted us crossing the street and creeping up the dirt front yard to the Outlaws’ house, we’d stand out like sore thumbs.
“No one’s going to see us,” I said. “We’ll make damn sure they don’t.”
Denise started to giggle. “Did you see the look on that cop’s face when we drove off and Raydean wouldn’t move her car? Man, that was great.”
“Hush, Denise,” I hissed. “Keep your mind on what we’re doing. Let’s go.” I reached for the door handle and started to open the car.
“Wait, Sierra,” Denise said, her face pale around the edges of her makeup.
“What?”
“Nothing, I guess,” she murmured.
We stepped out of the car and into the humid night air. The side door of Tan Fan
nies stood open and the sound of music and men catcalling the dancers drifted out into the neighborhood. I moved swiftly across the street with Denise right behind me, into the sheltering darkness of the trees that surrounded the Outlaws’ front yard.
There were no motorcycles in the front yard, only a large white Lincoln parked under the lone light shining onto the gravel driveway. A small garage marked the end of the driveway like a mausoleum. There was no sign of life on the inside of the faded wooden house. It stood eerily silent, its front porch casting an ominous shadow over the bushes that lined the front of the house.
Denise and I moved quickly past the front of the house and began edging closer to the windows along the side. One small window was open about six inches.
“If I boost you up, can you open it more and crawl in?” I asked Denise.
“Me?” Denise squeaked.
“Well, I’d go myself,” I whispered sarcastically, “but I got eight inches and twenty pounds on you, so it’d be hard for you to lift me.”
“Twenty-five,” she whispered caustically. “Let’s go.”
I braced my back against the side of the house, laced my fingers together, and hoisted Denise as far as I could. With a harsh thud that seemed to rattle the ancient house, Denise heaved her tiny body across the windowsill. There was the sound of a soft splash, then Denise’s voice swearing. A few moments later, the thick mop of black hair appeared at the window ledge.
“Wouldn’t you know it,” she called softly. “Right in front of the friggin’ toilet. I’m soaked.”
“Forget about that,” I said. “Get to the back door and let me in. And be quiet. Somebody could be in there.” Denise’s eyes widened and she disappeared. I crept cautiously around to the back door and waited. In a matter of moments the door creaked open and Denise beckoned me in.
“God, you stink,” I whispered.
“I don’t think they worry about flushing, Sierra,” she said softly.
“All right, did you hear anything? See anything?”
“You can’t see a freaking thing in here,” she answered. “How’re we going to find anything?”
“Stand still and listen,” I commanded. We were both silent, listening for anything we could pick up. Somewhere above us I could hear the faint sound of a dog whining.
“Oh God, it’s Arlo,” Denise breathed. Before I could stop her she was gone, racing through the darkened house, bumping against furniture in her haste to reach her baby.
I followed her, pulling the penlight I’d brought out of my back pocket and using it to pick my way through the house. The place was a shambles. Dirty sofas, ripped armchairs, and battered end tables lined what was intended to be a living room and dining room area. The banister shook and nearly came loose as I attempted to climb the steps. I could hear Denise crying and talking—I hoped to Arlo.
I followed the sound of her voice down the central hallway, past bedrooms that appeared to have mattresses on the floor and little else. I found Denise in the corner of a front bedroom, on her knees, with Arlo firmly clutched in her lap.
“Sierra,” she cried, her voice choking with tears, “I think he’s dying.”
I stepped over to her side, squatting down beside the two of them. The room reeked of dog urine and feces. The small wire cage that had been Arlo’s prison was covered with dog shit. I shone the flashlight on Arlo and realized that he was indeed in bad shape. His ribs stuck out through his encrusted fur and his eyes were sunken into his head. He stuck out his little pink tongue and tried to lick Denise’s hand.
“What have I done?” she cried. “This is all my fault.”
“Denise,” I said, “you can’t do this. We’ve got to get Arlo out of here, right now.” I stood up, reached to help her up, and froze. Someone was walking down the hallway toward us.
It was too late to react. There was nothing we could do and nowhere to hide if we’d wanted to try. The room was filled with the glaring light of a single lightbulb that hung from the ceiling. Even as I blinked, trying to adjust to the brightness, I knew our intruder. His boots were the first thing I saw and the last thing I remembered about him.
“I knew you’d be back,” Rambo said to Denise. “I see you brought the SPCA along with you.” Behind him I could hear the snickers of his companions, and I knew then that we were trapped. When I’d thought it was only Rambo, I’d figured maybe we could take him, but with three or four on two, there’d be no chance.
Rambo stepped easily into the room and looked around. Two other men followed, chains dangling from their back pockets and guns in their hands. Rambo paid no attention to his entourage. He was looking at Denise while he pulled a pack of cigarettes and a lighter from his shirt pocket.
“There’s a bounty on you, you know,” he said. “Walt don’t like it, you being a bitch and ripping us off.”
“I didn’t—” Denise began.
“Shut up!” Rambo screeched. In two quick steps he’d covered the distance between us and stood inches from Denise’s face. His breath was sour with alcohol. His eyes were narrow pinpoints and his breath came in quick shallow gasps. Rambo liked his cocaine, I thought.
“How’d you know we were here?” I asked, hoping to draw his attention away from Denise and Arlo.
He looked at me and blew smoke right in my face. A thick, black-handled knife had materialized in his hand. He stepped closer, bringing the knife up close to my face.
“How do you think them titties would look if I was to carve my initials in them?” he rasped.
I didn’t move, didn’t say a word. One of his companions sniffed uneasily and this distracted Rambo momentarily. When his attention returned, his mood had changed.
“You think we’d leave the clubhouse unprotected?” he asked. “You were seen. Sam, here, just walked on over to Tan Fannies and let me know you’d arrived. We’ve been waiting.”
“Look,” Denise said, “I’ve got the money. I was going to tell you that Leon couldn’t do the deal and give it back.”
“What kind of dumb ass do you take me for?” Rambo asked. “You two ain’t going nowhere until Walt comes back from Daytona. No, you two ladies are our guests for the weekend, so enjoy yourselves. I can assure you, me and the boys are going to enjoy ourselves.” Rambo reached out and flicked the material of my shirt with his knife.
“Rambo, you up there?” a male voice yelled out from downstairs. “You got company.”
“Shit. It’s them damn Mexicans, I bet,” he said to the others. “Come on.” Rambo walked briskly from the room followed by the two men. “Lock up,” he barked.
One of the men pulled the door shut, and from the outside I could hear the sound of a key being inserted into the dead-bolt lock. Denise began to tremble uncontrollably. I felt a chill move through my body. Below us, the house began to fill with loud voices and music. The bikers were partying, and when they reached their peak and finished with whoever had come to see them, we would be the next item of interest.
Two minutes passed in which neither of us said a word. Denise perched on the edge of the filthy mattress, rocking Arlo back and forth like a baby. Finally she looked up at me and I saw the fear was gone from her eyes.
“Well,” she said softly, “I’m thinking the window.”
I stepped softly over to the window and looked out.
“I’m game if you are,” I said. “We’re over the porch roof. It’s steep and it looks kind of rotten, but if we could make it to the edge, it would only be about an eight-foot drop.”
“What about Arlo?” she asked.
“I got an idea about that, too,” I said. I pulled the black turtleneck I wore off, stripping down to my black sports bra, and tied the neck hole closed. “Put him in here,” I said, holding the bottom end of the shirt open, “then turn around.” Arlo was too weak to move or put up a struggle as I strapped him to Denise’s back, papoose-style.
“Ready?” I asked. Denise nodded and I moved to the window and slowly raised it. The high-pitched squeal it made
filled the room, echoing off the empty walls. I stuck my head out and looked down. The porch roof was a four-foot drop. It would be easy as long as we didn’t land on a rotten piece of shingle or slip on the thin layer of moss that coated the disintegrating shingles.
“Go first,” I said. “I’ll try and help.” The short drop to the porch roof was nothing Denise couldn’t handle if the roof held.
Denise swung one leg over the windowsill and stopped. Arlo was tied to her back and not moving.
“Sierra?”
“What?” Another sound was filtering through, past the sounds of bikers partying. It was the sound of someone in the hallway. Denise looked up at me, her eyes wet with unshed tears.
“Thank you,” she whispered. “Nobody ever went out on the line for me before.”
The footsteps were definitely coming closer, stopping outside the door. We had to move quickly. I gave Denise a little shove.
“Someone’s coming, hurry,” I urged.
Denise lowered herself over the edge and dropped softly onto the roof below. Crouching down, she began to inch her way toward the end of the house and the sheltering branches of a pine tree.
I was halfway out the window when the door to the bedroom swung open. I didn’t wait to see who it was. I swung my other leg over the sill and jumped, barely catching myself as I hit the roof. My left foot slammed into a rotting shingle and sank two inches down into the roof’s surface. The porch wasn’t going to take much more abuse and might not even hold the two of us as we tried to climb down.
There was a muffled shout and then Rambo stuck his head through the window.
“Don’t even try it!” he yelled.
I didn’t look back, just kept heading for the edge of the porch where Denise waited under the sheltering arms of the pine tree. I knew he was coming. I reached the lowest edge of the porch and laid down.
“Denise,” I said, “hang on to my wrists and the edge of the gutter and drop down. It’s only eight feet.”
Behind me I heard Rambo swear and swing his leg over the windowsill.
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