The thing to do was open the door and dump out the urine, then tail the Jeep.
But I technically only had one functional hand. My robotic prosthesis could do some cool things, like crush a can of soup, or crush a can of beans, but it lacked the subtlety of human touch. That meant I had to tuck myself back in, zip up, open the door, pour out the urine, close the door, and then begin pursuit. During that time, the Jeep would be gone.
So I placed the container on the dashboard, put Little Harry away, then pulled smoothly into traffic, deciding to dump the pee when I got to a stoplight.
Then it was full-on white-knuckle adrenalin-rush car chase.
There’s an art to tailing somebody. Especially in a car as obvious as my Corvette.
Unfortunately, I was unaware of that art, and just tried to keep the Jeep in sight without being seen myself, while also making sure I didn’t splash piss all over everything.
That meant easy acceleration, easy on the brakes, no quick turns, and for god’s sake watch out for potholes. I also couldn’t answer my cell phone, which was ringing. I let it go to voice mail.
Whoever was behind the wheel of the Jeep drove like an asshole, cutting other cars off, not using his turn signal, speeding. He quickly got five car lengths ahead, and I was in danger of losing him.
I was also in danger of spilling piss everywhere.
I had to make a decision. Perhaps the most important decision of my life.
I loved my Corvette. I originally had a ’67 Ford Mustang, but had to give it up when I lost my hand because I couldn’t drive stick shift. I didn’t expect the Vette to ever take the place of the Stang in my heart, but it had.
Forever ruining my interior with urine wasn’t an option.
But I’d read a lot of survival books. About people in similar situations to mine, like being stuck in the ocean on a lifeboat without any water, or stranded in the desert a hundred miles away from the nearest river, or trapped in a crevasse while exploring a cave, or being unable to get out of the armchair while binge-watching all eight seasons of the X-Files on Netflix.
In order to survive, you had to drink your urine.
And to save my Corvette, I knew I had to do the same.
Gingerly picking up the plastic container while steering straight with my robot hand, I brought it up to my mouth, parted my lips, began to pour—
—then the horrible urine smell hit me, like the bathroom at Wrigley Field times ten, and I gagged and splashed piss everywhere.
My hair. My clothes. My plush leather seats.
Soaked. Soaked and stinky.
Then I puked all over the steering wheel and dashboard.
When I finally stopped crying, I could no longer see the Jeep. It was like multiplying a tragedy by a tragedy, squared.
I hit the gas, passing cars left and right, fighting not to throw up again, and saw the Jeep turn on Congress.
I followed, then steered with my wet knees long enough to open a window, making a note to see a doctor soon because human urine shouldn’t smell that bad.
Yeah, it was gross. I had firsthand knowledge of how gross it was. Welcome to life. It’s smelly, and messy, and disgusting. Try taking care of a baby. Or an elderly parent. Or a dwarf miniature horse.
We all have to get our hands dirty. It comes with being a human being. You deal with it and move on. So if you’re thinking about leaving a bad Amazon review because this scene is repulsive, remember that you have bodily functions, too. And trust me; they don’t smell like roses.
That said, if given a second chance, I probably would have rethought the whole pissing in a container without a lid situation.
On top of the mess, and the smell, and the regret, I got stuck at a red light, and the Jeep sped ahead, vanishing in traffic.
I used the reprieve to quickly check the glove compartment for napkins, and found a single wet wipe. It probably wouldn’t soak up a liter of piss, but at least I could wipe my mouth off.
I felt one hundred percent better.
Not really. But by that point, I’d take any small victory.
The light changed and I gunned it, coming up to the turn onto I-90.
Running on pure private eye instinct, I took the ramp.
Either I was still following them, or I wasn’t.
I stayed the course.
I drove for almost five minutes at eighty miles an hour, thinking for sure I must have lost them. But then the Jeep appeared, to my left, in the express lanes. I followed as best I could, keeping them in sight when possible, guessing where they were when the express lanes split off from the main highway to go around the el tracks that ran parallel to our course.
It was nerve wracking, and I had to go to the bathroom again, and I actually considered just going because my clothes and car were ruined anyway, but I pushed the thought away because that’s what real men do.
Ten minutes later, they finally merged back into the main expressway, and I was able to keep them in sight all the way to them exiting on Roselle road.
He wound up in a suburb called Maple Hills. I vaguely remembered dating a girl, years ago, who lived in Maple Hills. Or maybe her name was Maple. Or Hills. Something was familiar, I was one hundred percent mostly sure of that.
After some suburban stop-and-go traffic, the Jeep turned into a trailer park.
I mean, it turned left, into a trailer park. It didn’t turn into a trailer park, werewolf-style. Bad choice of words. I wondered if I tended to overthink things, and spent the next few minutes thinking about that.
I’d been abandoned as a baby, never knowing my parents, bouncing from foster home to foster home, and for a brief amount of time I lived in a trailer home. The media makes trailer parks out to be tornado magnets entrenched with ignorance and poverty. But I found them to be just like any other neighborhood, Just poorer and stupider. Also, they attracted tornadoes.
It was all rank and file like a huge compartmentalized drawer for human beings. The grid of narrow streets all needed repaving, two out of every three trailers needed paint, and seeing unkept lawns too small for cemetery plots didn’t make me want to run right out and fork over a down payment.
The Jeep parked in front of a tan double-wide, and I stopped around the corner, watching.
A guy came out, tallish, thinish, non-descript. A girl came out as well. She might have been Cherry. I couldn’t tell from that distance. Then I remembered my binoculars. I shook off the urine and took a peek.
Too late. She turned her head.
I watched her, and the guy, go into the house.
I was also finally close enough to read the Jeep’s license. Illinois plates. I found my notepad, but it was soaked with pee and when I used the pen it tore through the paper.
I needed to get myself cleaned up.
In my trunk I had a gym bag, a leftover from one of my more optimistic moments when I joined a gym with dreams of becoming an amateur body builder, which lasted until right after I signed a four year gym membership and then got distracted by dreams of becoming an amateur astronomer. I got as far as finding the moon. It’s the big round one that comes out at night.
My gym bag contained a towel, a sweatshirt, shorts, and fresh underwear and socks, all of which I needed. I took off my shoulder holster (did I mention I carried a .44 Magnum, which was a very large handgun but I really wasn’t overcompensating for anything), and changed into clean clothes really fast in case anyone was watching. I also used almost an entire bottle of baby powder on my body, because; chafing.
Since I was no longer wearing a jacket, I had nothing to hide my Magnum, so I locked it in the trunk and put the throw away piece I keep in my tool kit—a Hi-Point 380HC—in my shorts pocket. For the uninitiated, a throw-away piece is an untraceable gun that you would plant on someone if you ever accidentally killed them, to make it look like you acted in self-defense. I’d never needed to use a throw-away piece, but I never needed to use a fire extinguisher, either. That didn’t mean it was a bad idea to have one.
Like many trailer parks, all of the homes were arranged in rank and file, parked close enough for neighbors to hear each other’s televisions. I didn’t notice anyone wandering around, but someone’s dog wouldn’t shut up, and someone else was listening to country music at a volume that shouldn’t be legal north of the Mason-Dixon line.
Since I assumed trailer parks were frequently patrolled by cops who didn’t have anything better to do, I knew I had to remain fully alert. I took another look around, three-hundred and sixty degrees. Then, in my spur-of-the-moment yet clever ready-for-the-gym disguise, I sauntered up to the trailer Cherry went in, and went to the closest window to peek inside.
There were blinds drawn. I hated blinds. They were a private eye’s worst enemy.
I crept around to the next window. This one had drapes, not blinds, and I was able to see through the crack, into the kitchen. My two suspects were up against the fridge, locked in a passionate embrace.
Either that, or they were sharing the same piece of gum.
I brought up my iPhone and tapped the camera app to bring it up. Their faces were mashed against each other’s so I couldn’t tell if this was Cherry or not.
The kissing got more intense. He moved his head down to her neck and began sucking on that, but it was the wrong side and I still couldn’t see her face. Then, abruptly, he stopped and they walked out of my field of vision.
How funny would it be if I went through all of this to get here, and it wasn’t Cherry?
Answer; not funny at all.
I took another look around for cops, and nosy neighbors, and dogs, and wandering trailer park psychopaths, and then moved on to the next window.
A living room. And set up was a makeshift photography studio. Three soft lights, attached to white filtering umbrellas, were focused on the couch. There were also two cameras on tripods, each of varying focal lengths. A third camera was around the guy’s neck, and he was aiming it at the sofa.
I snapped a picture of him.
On the sofa, legs under her in a kittenish pose, was Cherry.
The ace private eye does it again.
I aimed the phone at her and took a few pics.
The guy took a light meter reading, adjusted his f-stop, then took a few pictures of her too. He was talking, but I couldn’t make out anything through the window.
Then Cherry took off her shirt, revealing her bra.
I didn’t have to know the circumstances to guess what had led to this point. The guy said he was a talent scout, or a photographer, or a movie producer, and he told Cherry she was beautiful and he’d make her famous. So she skips her breast augmentation appointment for this once-in-a-lifetime chance to snap some nudie pictures in a trailer park.
What a cheap, tawdry little scam.
I wondered how quickly I could get some business cards printed up that said I was a talent scout.
“This is the Maple Hills Police! Lie on the ground with your hands behind your head!”
I turned, saw a cop standing up next to his squad car.
Nice job, Harry.
I decided not to take the kindly policeman’s advice, and instead ran in the opposite direction. I cut through the backyard, working my way up to a full sprint, trying to weigh my options.
Had they found my car yet? If not, how could I get to it without being seen? In two or three minutes the streets would be swarming with cop cars, since this was the burbs and they had nothing better to do. Hiding was out of the question, because it would eventually become a foot search.
I ducked through an adjacent backyard and chanced a look behind me. No cops. I ran ahead.
The safest place for me was probably inside one of these trailers. But B&E carried more weight than a simple peeping tom charge, and I didn’t want to risk it.
The gym clothes may have fooled the casual onlooker, but I was already out of breath. I wasn’t in my prime. In fact, when I was in my prime I wasn’t in my prime. I should probably start an exercise program. Maybe join a gym.
I hugged close to the trailer and made my way to the front. There was a faint flashing red light off to my left. I peeked around the corner and saw two squad cars parked side-by-side in opposite directions, their drivers conversing.
Shit. I looked to my right and could barely make out the trunk of my car, parked about fifty meters away. If I made a mad dash for it, I’d probably be seen and chased. If I walked up to it casually, I’d probably be seen and chased. If I kept sneaking around the back yards of houses, eventually someone was going to find my car and take down the license, if they hadn’t already.
Any direction I turned my ass, someone was waiting to plug me.
Unless I created a diversion.
I debated starting a trailer on fire, but immediately disregarded it. Fires took a while to get started, and I needed something fast. Besides, I left my tank of kerosene in my other shorts. I adjusted the gun in my pocket and tried to think of something else I could use to get their attention. If I only had some way to make a loud noise of some sort. Or some way to make them run for cover…
Come on, McGlade! Think! What could create a diversion? Think man!
Ah, the hell with it. I took a deep breath and decided to run for my car, hoping they wouldn’t see me, breaking into a sprint, a lifetime of fatty foods preventing anything that could be called genuine speed. The first ten meters were like running through lentil soup. After the second ten, I was wheezing like an asthmatic at a smoker’s convention. The last thirty meters, my legs were so rubbery I think several times they actually bent backwards.
But, inconceivably, I made it. My upper body collapsed, heaving, on the trunk of my car, and I turned to see what the cop cars were doing.
Nothing. They were still talking.
Maple Hills’s finest.
I fished out my keys and unlocked the Vette door.
Then the screaming began.
My damn alarm.
“Aaaaaaaa! Aaaaaaaaaaaaa! Aaaaaaaaaaaaa!”
As I climbed into the car, I dropped my keys and sat on them.
“Aaaaaaaaaa! Aaaaaaaaaaaa!”
I almost began screaming myself. Sitting on your keys wasn’t a pleasant experience. I managed to fish them out and jam them into the ignition.
The screaming stopped.
Not risking a look at the cops, I flipped the kill switch under my dash and then tried to find the key on my ring that would take the metal bar off of my steering wheel. But the key was on my keychain, and my keychain was attached to the key in the ignition. And if I took my keys out again, my screaming alarm would reset.
Was that a siren?
Don’t turn around. Don’t look. Just find the key. Find the key. Find the key, jackass.
There. The key.
Now get the key off the keychain. Don’t look behind you. Get the key off the chain. Get it off.
It wouldn’t come off.
At this point, I think I’d already had about five heart attacks, plus arrest was imminent, so I just pulled out the damn keys.
“Aaaaaaaa! Aaaaaaaaaaaaa! Aaaaaaaaaaaaa!”
I took off the metal bar, expecting to be shot or tazed at any moment, and then jammed my key back in the ignition, killing the screaming.
Then I started my car, did a U turn, and drove past the two cops cars, who were still parked side-by-side and chatting.
Idiots. I decided next time I wanted to rob a house, I was coming back to Maple Hills.
During the ride back to Chicago, many thoughts cross-stitched through the fabric of my mind. Where do I go from here? Do I call Kahdem? Why didn’t I take a pic of the Jeep’s license plates? Can I find the guy by tracing the trailer’s address? Why didn’t I take a pic of the trailer’s address? Is my car alarm system perhaps a tiny bit impractical?
I decided to call Kahdem. Not about my car alarm, but about Cherry. He was the client, and he had to decide if I pursued the guy in the Jeep. I gave him a c
all.
“Mr. Kahdem’s phone.”
“Hey, Parviz. It’s McGlade. How’s your squat?”
“Twenty reps at three hundred kilos.”
I tried to convert metric to English in my head to figure out pounds, forgot the conversion rate, and just went with, “Sweet. Kahdem around? I have to talk to him.”
“He’s busy at the moment. Can I take a message?”
As a rule, I didn’t discuss my client’s business with anyone, even if they were employees or significant others.
“Do you make appointments for him?”
“Yes.”
“Can I meet him for lunch tomorrow?”
“He could meet you at Le Femme.”
“Pass. How about the Big Stinky Onion instead? On Milwaukee.”
“I’ve never heard of it.”
“It’s great. They have this whole theme around big stinky onions. They got Big Stinky Onion Rings. Big Stinky Onion Soup. Big Stinky Onion Pudding.”
“Mr. Kahdem is not a big fan of onions.”
“They also make a mean boiled steak. It’s really big. And stinky. And covered with onions.”
“I can put him down for noon. Does the Big Stinky Onion require reservations?”
“I’m not sure. Check Groupon.”
“I’ll do that.”
Then I checked my message, from when someone called during my hot pursuit.
“Mr. McGlade, this is Jasper. The doorman. The black Jeep just came and picked up Meredith’s friend.”
I called him back. “Jasper, it’s McGlade. Did you get the license plate on the Jeep?”
“No. You didn’t tell me to.”
“It was implied, Jasper. If you’re looking for a car, it’s just common sense to get the plate number,” said the guy looking for a car but failed to get the plate number.
“I understand.”
“Get it, and let me know. This forty bucks has your name on it.”
Then I headed home, to my beloved pet horse, whom I hadn’t named yet.
What was a good name for a dwarf miniature pony? Something instantly recognizable, yet clever and funny?
Phineas Troutt Series - Three Thriller Novels (Dead On My Feet #1, Dying Breath #2, Everybody Dies #3) Page 35