A Dying Wish
Page 6
Mystifying.
Blondie had rebuilt the 429 in the Ford herself, and I'm willing to bet The Shocker had fabricated her entire El Camino. If I remember correctly, she used to own a mechanic shop in Woolmarket, Custom Ace, before she and her husband were imprisoned four years ago. These two crazy goddamn women had already contested their fighting skills. Now they'll contest their Who's the Better Builder and Driver skills.
My Johnson decided he didn't need sex to be in Heaven and swelled with divine euphoria as the dynamic angels left ridiculously long black marks across the intersection, green light blurring overhead as I walked a wheelie after them, giggling like a mad man.
The Fort Bayou Bridge was about a quarter mile ahead, the foot of it a perfect Finish line for their race. Evidently, the girls weren't satisfied with a tie, blasting over the bridge without a thought of slowing, weaving around several cars, blaring horns drowned out by the bellowing exhaust of the two big blocks, sound waves rocketing out over the dark water.
My tires hit the grate of the drawbridge, the rear Pirelli momentarily losing traction on the steel, the bike's engine racing, rubber gripping firmly again, popping up the front-end as I rolled on concrete once more. “PRESIDENT, BITCH!” I screamed in my helmet, shifting gears.
The wide lanes provided plenty of room to maneuver around the few vehicles that were out this early in the morning. Numerous businesses, medical plazas, gas stations blipped by, peripheral tracers reminiscent of a great acid trip. A quick glance at the speedo' told me that we were going 140 mph, the girls just ahead of me, neck-and-neck, their hot rods evenly matched. Both had slammed, NASCAR-like suspensions, wide tires and aerodynamics that loved high speeds, tricky corners, and plenty of courage behind the wheel.
A curve ahead gently sloped to the right, a major intersection with Lemoyne Boulevard perpendicular to it. As dangerous as that was, it didn't worry me. The Sheriff's substation we had to pass to get there did, though. Our 150 mph trio blazed by the station with enough noise to rival the sonic boom of a fighter jet, surely rousing the doughnut eaters that called themselves deputies. The intersection had a few cars, none in our way, red lights barely registering in my senses, a straightaway showing Interstate 10 mere seconds away. Speedway on the right, Denny's on the left, the girls' brake lights beaming as they slowed for the on-ramp.
As I leaned to follow I swiveled my head and saw flashing light bars on several Crown Victoria's racing in our direction, far behind us. “Aw. Whittle piggies can't keep up with the big hogs.” Eyes front, I merged onto the interstate, jaw beginning to cramp from holding a tight grin.
It was 1:00 a.m., traffic thin but not completely out of the way. The big Hayabusa vibrated pleasantly in 6th gear, RPMs at 9,000 and climbing, nearing 160 mph, vision oscillating from the winds buffeting the bike's wide engine fairing. It was a chore to concentrate on what was ahead of me rather than what was right in front of me. Maintaining speed vision is intrinsic to racing of any sort. A racer in their prime has the cognitive ability to handle it much longer and accurately than a person past their ideal thinking years. An experienced young racer can really push the envelope, stay in front of the competition, on the edge, if they have the self-assurance and boldness, the want, to be superior to all others at all costs. Those who fear injury come in last.
I felt that bold emotion coursing through my veins now and knew the angels in front of me must feel it even stronger, them being in actual competition at present. The rush could be extremely exhausting; Indy car and NASCAR drivers lose up to eight pounds during a single race. However, considering the physical conditioning of Blondie and Shocker, I didn't think fatigue would be an issue… But the state trooper we just passed was a different matter, a potentially dangerous issue.
Letting off the throttle I slowed to 75 mph, which seemed like 10 mph after going a buck-sixty. Weaved into the right lane between a Peterbuilt and a sedan, allowing the trooper to catch up then pass me. Jumping back into the left lane I hit a toggle on my hand-grip that switched off my lights, shadowing the headlamp and license plate so the cop wouldn't see me come up behind him or make a note of my plate as I raced past.
With my left hand I unsheathed my straight razor, flicked open the blade. Downshifted and sped up behind, then alongside the trooper's Crown Vic, left leg nearly touching his right passenger door. I grunted, swinging the blade down, slicing through the rear tire, immediately leaning right to avoid the car careening into me, his tire shredded, rubber flying in all directions, peppering the cars in the right lane, whose drivers looked at me in shocked disbelief. I sheathed my blade, waved to my audience and flicked the lights back on, getting back in the throttle, the cop's light minuscule and fading in my mirror as I tried to catch up to the girls.
My chest pressed proudly into the fuel tank. I sputtered a silly laugh. Why the hell did I ever quit doing this? I'm so good at it.
I snorted, swallowed, shook my head.
I wasn't able to catch up, nearly a mile behind after neutralizing the cop. I exited into Pass Christian, zipped south to Highway 90, and was at the parking garage in minutes. It was six stories high, on a corner of a residential street that ended at the highway. A couple of oak trees bristling in the median out front, dark and barren around the sides. Empty lot out back separating it from a condo complex of recent build. Traffic was surprisingly thick in the four lanes between me and the beach, moon partly covered by black clouds over the Gulf.
I began to turn into the garage entrance, but braked quickly, feet touching asphalt, jerking my head around to see Blondie and Shocker talking to a kid that wore some kind of billboard over his head, the square of plywood hanging from his neck to the top of his shoes. They both wore pouty, Aw Poor Baby expressions, leaning over to listen to the boy whine about something.
“Fuck. What drama hell is this now?” I sighed, irritated that the electrifying race had ended and we were back to having feelings again.
I put the bike on its kickstand, killed the ignition and pocketed the keys. Took off my helmet, hooked it on the handlebars, inhaling the fresh sea air deeply. Walked towards the women. I rounded the corner and stopped short. Bobby's mountainous frame stood next to Ace's lamppost physique, their backs against the gray concrete of the first-story wall, watching the scene with amusement. I gestured, What's the business?
Bobby smiled. “That kid's dad made him stand by the highway wearing that sign. The ladies took offense.”
I couldn't see the sign from here. “What's it say?”
Ace frowned, said, “I lie, steal, and sell drugs.”
“Really?” I grinned, stuck my hands in my pockets. “My kind of kid.”
Bobby shook his head at me in disappointment. “That kid's gonna end up in prison.” He frowned at the thought. “The father must be a real jive turkey. You don't publicly shame your kids like this. It's the parents' fault that boy is lying and breaking laws in the first place.”
“Makes sense,” I agreed, unable to offer any insight. I've never been parented or done any parenting.
I looked back at the kid. He pointed to the back of the garage, head down in guilt, and both girls looked in that direction with furious mugs. They eased the billboard from around his neck, dropped it. Shocker took his hand and they marched quickly around the building with purpose.
“Uh-oh,” Ace said smiling. “I know that look.”
“Yeah.” I matched his cheer. “Someone's going to get an attitude adjustment.”
“Come on,” Bobby said, teeth bright white in the shadows. “The father must be out back. We'll block him if he tries to escape.”
We followed the giant around the other side of the garage, peeked around the corner and saw a car parked in the empty lot, a tan Nissan Sentra, a man of middle-age in the driver's seat. He spotted the women and his son stalking toward him, got out, standing with hands on waist like he was going to assert some kind of authority over the situation. I had to clamp a hand over my mouth to hold back a shout of laughter.
“Yes. What are you doing with Carl?” he replied in an argumentative tone. He was about six-two, two-sixty, a lifetime pizza and beer guy with thick black hair curled over his ears, shiny from the street lights illuminating the lot.
Blondie's fury was a sight to behold. She took a step closer to Greg and snarled, “The question is, what are you doing with Carl? You piece of shit. Do you have any idea how much damage you are doing to your son? He's going to be fucked up on psych meds for the rest of his life because of your ignorant ass!”
I'm pretty sure her Psychology Today magazines didn't say that exactly, but her version was much more effective at getting the point across, don't you agree?
Greg puffed out his chest. “Now, that's none of your business, whoever you-”
Crack!
Blondie's slap was nearly too fast to see. Greg's large head bucked to the side, he staggered, and Shocker darted in with a straight-right to his pepperoni-and-extra-cheese gut, grunting as it thudded deep into him. She reset, he cried out, voice cut off as his breathing failed, doubling over, arm shooting out to grab the car for support. Knees crunching painfully in the gravel. The kid's eyes popped wide. I laughed, Ace and Bobby doing the same. The girls and Carl looked up at us. We walked over to join the party.
Greg, trying to stay balanced while kneeling, coughed painfully, face a gold-scarlet in the light. Both girls stood over him with tight fists, obviously wanting to do him something worse. Because they were too emotionally involved I decided to add a clear head to the situation. The guy had been disciplined, though hadn't learned his lesson. He needed to know worse would happen if he did something like this again. And besides, this was a great opportunity to score some points with my girl, get her to see that I do have a heart when it comes to kids.
I stepped over to Greg, put a foot on his back and shoved him face down to the ground. He cursed out a breath. I leaned over and jerked his wallet from his back pocket. Opened it. Removed the driver's license. Slipped the BlackBerry from my pants. Snapped a pic of his ID, reinserted it in the wallet, tossed it down. I gestured at Bobby and he happily snatched Greg up like he weighed nothing. I got right in the asshole's face.
“Listen up, pal. You're fortunate these ladies don't go full Colombiana on your ass. If your kid would benefit from seeing you get beaten to death,” I grinned wolfishly, “it just wouldn't be your day. You can thank the Odds there isn't any pro-patricide literature out there.”
Blondie sighed behind me and I thought, Okay, maybe I could have phrased that differently.
“However, I'm not so forgiving. If I have to give you a tune-up you'll get far more than a slap and a gut punch.” I feinted a jab at his face. He flinched, started shaking. “I have your ID info, and plan to keep tabs on you and Carl.” Turning to the boy I said, “How old are you?”
“Twelve,” he murmured with his head down.
“Look at me.” He looked up, brown eyes wide under a shag of dirty blonde hair. Nose and chin strong, freckles on his cheeks, and a black eye, the real reason the girls were so incensed. I planned to lecture him on selling dope later, and the ABCs of Thievery. But had something else in mind for now. “You want a job?”
He looked at his dad. Back to me. “I guess so.”
“See this garage?” He nodded. “I own it. I need someone to clean it twice a week. You'll be sweeping eight hours a day on Mondays and Fridays for two hundred dollars.”
“And when you start school again, we'll work out a different schedule, honey,” Blondie told him, stroking his hair.
I smiled at her, He goes to school??? Carl took a breath, licked his lips. I told him, “Come see me here on the top floor, next Monday at seven o'clock. Okay?” He nodded yes, eyes wide again. I turned back to Greg. “That's okay with you, Dad.”
“I, uh-”
“Shut up.” I slapped him. “I wasn't asking you.” I stood there uncertainly for a moment, thinking fast. I glanced at Blondie, who gave me her And??? look, like I was leaving something out. All I could think of was something I saw on TV about kids staying up too late. It was past this dude's bedtime, right? I said, “Why is Carl not in bed? It's nearly two a.m.”
“It's complicated,” Greg mumbled, grimacing, massaging his cheek.
“No, trying to pee with morning wood is complicated. Making sure your kid has a good night's sleep is simple.” Another glance at Blondie earned me a good enough nod of approval. I'll count that as she owes me one, I thought, focusing on the jackass again. I nodded to Bobby. He released Greg, folded his arms.
I looked at the car, about to walk away, spotting a can of spray paint in the back seat. Glossy black that had been used to make the shame sign. I smiled wickedly. Opened the door, grabbed it.
As we walked back to the garage entrance, horns sounded repeatedly from motorists passing by the man standing in the median with a billboard hanging from his neck. I SHAME MY KID IN PUBLIC - HONK IF I AM A BITCH was painted in fresh shiny black on the new shame sign. Greg stood there, hair blowing around his embarrassed, humbled face. Carl, sitting on a branch high in an oak tree, looked down on his father with a satisfied smirk.
“Well, I'd say our first job as a team was a success,” Ace said smugly. His lanky walk reminded me of a praying mantis.
I straddled the Suzuki. “That's the fourth most interesting thing to arouse me tonight.”
“Fourth?” Blondie queried. Everyone stopped to listen. Shocker glanced at my crotch to, presumably, see how literal I was being.
“Yes.” I ticked off on my fingers. “First, a meth shooter attempted to rob me before I met you at Eddy's.” I looked at Shocker. “I checked him,” I told her, snapping a check-hook, the same move she had used to disarm Blondie. I turned back to my girl. “Then I had the pleasure of fighting the girl-beast.”
“Hey!” Shocker fumed. “Girl-beast?!”
I gave her my #1 Mr. Good Guy smile, held up a third digit, which just happened to be my middle finger. Her lips puckered, eyes narrowed. “Third, I had to slash a cop's tire, because you two nut cases just had to see who sported the better set of boobies behind the wheel.”
She and Blondie looked at each other, at the sky, ground, Shocker slightly embarrassed, Blondie smiling. Guess my girl won that round. Blondie: 1. Shocker: 1.
Four fingers. “Then I got to slap a deadbeat dad and offer a job to a juvenile hustler.” I inhaled deeply. Sighed. “Thank you for a highly stimulating evening, ladies and gents.”
“It's not over yet, Babe.” Blondie showed me her phone: A text from Big Guns. “He'll be here in five.”
“Marvelous.”
Everyone got into their respective vehicles. We drove up the ramps, fluorescent lights bright on every floor, the chrome of our machines glinting off the cars filling the first three levels, exhaust deafening in the confined space. The next two levels were sparse of cars, the sections reserved for long-term parking. Stopping at the bottom of the top level ramp, I hit a button on my phone. There was a heavy clunk from deep inside the concrete walls, forged steel bolts retracting. The vault-type door in front of us cycled open on a massive track from left to right. Another clunk when it stopped, open. Moonlight and stars greeted us as we drove up and out on the roof.
The top floor wasn't for parking; it was our playground. We kept several toys up here and maintained three work stations that we used to construct everything from welding jigs to sophisticated robotics. Two steel sheds, each twenty-five square feet, stood on either side of a canopied picnic area, floodlights lighting up two long tables with benches and a gas grill, all gleaming stainless steel. Behind that was a fifteen foot cinder block tower, a small observatory with a high-powered telescope and infrared and ultraviolet equipment. We called it our “Trippin' Tower.”
Ever see shooting stars on acid? Put “LSD and telescope” on your Things To Do
Before I Die list.
In front of one shed was a runway with orange guide lights anchored to the concrete. For my drone. The other shed held tools of various specs, a veritable lab that any craftsman would salivate over. That was Station #1. The tables under the canopy were Stations #2 and #3. Nearly every project would have components, tools and cables strewn out over every station, in an assembly line. Everything was clean and put away for now, though.
We parked by the sheds. Got out, doors closing, their normal thunk swallowed by the freedom of open air, a breezy black night. Shocker and her guys looked around in astonishment. She said, “Holy Shit. What do you guys do up here?”
“Get high, mostly,” I answered. She frowned. Blondie tittered, walking towards the tables. I added, “We also engineer whatever contraptions that happen to be schemed up by our drug-enhanced minds.”
“Uh-huh. I guessed as much. Eddy mentioned that you were taught by Pete Eagleclaw. I've always admired his motorcycle designs.”
“You built cars, right?”
“Mmm-hmm. Had my own shop for a while. I honestly don't miss it. Miss doing tattoos, though.” She sighed.
I looked at her right shoulder. A Champion-brand spark plug was tattooed there, colors and shading realistic, rays of blue and white spitting out of the plug's electrode. No other skin art could possibly fit her better. “I've seen work from your parlor, Tattoology. World-class.”
“Boss, right?” She smiled, and I returned it. Another sigh. “That's all in the past. It's been all about the kids and making sure we leave no trails for the feds ever since our escape.”
“No trails, hmm,” I said thinking about the train of cops that was just chasing her. “Where do you live now?”
She didn't answer, looking around. Pointed to four one-foot square steel plates that were recessed in the concrete. “Is that a car lift?”
I nodded, letting her divert me. “Hydraulic cylinders.”