by Evelyn Glass
Once it’s over and he’s lowered me to the floor, he holds me for a few minutes, holds me close, and then we wash properly and go into the bedroom. Chance doesn’t say a word. I get the sense that he’s too exposed right now to speak, so I don’t say anything, either. He lies on the bed—this one has somehow remained standing—and closes his eyes, falling almost instantly to sleep.
“Wow,” I say, looking down at his naked, sleeping, peaceful body, more peaceful than he’s looked all winter. “That was…just wow, Chance.”
In his sleep, he grins.
I lie down next to him for a couple of hours, waiting to see if he’ll wake up and need me, listening to the wind and the radiator and the faint noises of people and TVs in the adjacent rooms. I’m drifting off to sleep when, out of the blue, I feel sick to my stomach. I try to swallow away the nausea, but it won’t be held back. I barely manage to jump into the bathroom in time to be sick into the bowl, keeled over, my belly tight and painful.
As I kneel there, going over reasons why I’m painting the bowl in chunks, I try and reason it out. And then it hits me. Almost two months…and I keep wondering when I’ll need to have the awkward conversation of sending Chase out for tampons. But I haven’t needed to. At all. In two months.
Oh, fuck.
In the next room, I hear Chance talking to somebody on the phone.
Chapter Fourteen
Chance
Tonight’s been one hell of a fuckin’ night. First I go and get all sentimental when doin’ a run-of-the-mill hit job—even if there was a load of blood, it was still a regular job—and then I go and start kissin’ Becky, and it felt good, and now I’m gettin’ a call from the front desk. As I answer it, I hear Becky being sick in the bathroom. I don’t think much of it, though. Probably just the Chinese we ate earlier today.
“Yeah?” I say, answering the phone. “What is it?”
“Pigs on the prowl,” the receptionist says. “ETA, three minutes.”
“Fuck!”
I slam drop the phone onto the bedside table, go to the front door, make sure it’s locked and bolted, and then run into the bathroom, where Becky is counting on her fingers for some reason. “We gotta get going,” I say. “Fuckin’ police are on their way up here. I’m fucked if they get me, Becky. So I don’t wanna have to ask you to do anythin’ twice, alright? No matter what it is.”
She nods quickly, leaping to her feet. “You won’t have to,” she says.
“Alright. Get dressed, quickly.”
Both of us go into the bedroom and start pulling on clothes. My plan is that as soon as we’re dressed, we bolt to the car park and then get in my car, and just fuckin’ drive someplace else. But where? This is a Family-owned place, and there’re police on it. We’re meant to pay the police to not pull this kinda shit. I’m just pullin’ on my boots when the front door goes bang-bang-bang, and then the expected, “Open up! Police!”
Fuck.
Becky’s fully dressed in a hoodie and sweatpants and shoes. I go to the bedside table, get my cell and my pistol and just stand there for a second not knowing what the hell to do. I can’t shoot down cops. That’s a quick way to get yourself thrown away for life, or clipped by the Family for implicating them if you decide to save your life by ratting. And even if I don’t rat—which I goddamn won’t—they might think I am and decide to just take me out anyway.
Fuck.
“Open this door! This is Detective Martin Gomez with the New York Police Department! I am here to talk to Chance Baylor! If you don’t open up in five seconds we’re going to bash this door down!”
Fuck.
I grab Becky by the hand and take her into the bathroom. I’ve never paid much special attention to the windows in here, never wondered much if they’d work as escape routes ’cause I assumed all club places were off-limits. Well, I reckon I assumed wrong and now we’re screwed. The window is a small square, probably big enough for Becky, but for me?
I go to the window, force it open, and then tear the pane clear from the hinges, bein’ careful not to break any of the glass. Then I take the pane and toss it into the bedroom, so that the glass breaks all over the floor. The door is juddering now, the pigs knockin’ into it with somethin’ powerful. I’m glad all Family places have bolts on the doors, at least. I close the bathroom door and gesture to the window, which is now just a square of wall showin’ glimpses of the snowy alleyway.
“Climb out,” I tell Becky. “Right now.”
She opens her mouth. I snap, “I told you not to fuckin’ argue! Now!”
Without waitin’ for a reply, I pick her up and carry her to the window, pushin’ her up so that she has no choice but to worm her way outta there. She climbs through. I hear the thfff of the snow as she lands on the other side. Then the door to the motel crashes open and heavy-booted officers charge into the room, crunching over the useless glass.
“Becky,” I whisper through the window, talking quicker’n I’ve ever talked, “shout as loud as you can that you’re a hostage. Shout that I’ll kill you if they come in here.”
I hear the officers creepin’ toward the bathroom, no doubt spreading out with shotguns and Glocks.
Becky, thank fuckin’ Christ, doesn’t question me. Just as Officer Gomez is openin’ the bathroom door, Becky screams: “Don’t come in here! He’s got a gun to my head and he’ll kill me! He’ll kill me! Please! Please!”
“Wait,” I hear Officer Gomez mutter. And then, louder, “Chance, this isn’t smart. You know that.”
I climb up to the window, suckin’ in my belly, wishin’ for the first time in my life that I was one of those skinny skater guys. The wall where the pane used to be scrapes me, squeezing me, cutting into my arms, my side. Becky is standin’ underneath, arms open like she’s gonna catch me. I nod at her to move out of the way, and she does. Then, behind me, I hear the door fly open and officers fill the bathroom.
“He’s climbing out the fucking window!” a woman cries.
“Grab him!” Gomez roars. “Grab the bastard!”
I kick, wriggle, and just about manage to fall head-first into the snow as I feel a hand coil around my ankle. The hand holds tight, all the way until I’m hanging out the window, head in the snow, with some strong bastard holdin’ me up. I reach up and slam my fist down on the hand, twice, causin’ whoever owns it to yelp out in pain and let me go. Rollin’ over, I jump up straightaway and take Becky’s hand.
“Let’s fuckin’ go,” I say. “Follow me.”
Squeezin’ onto her hand tightly, I sprint with her toward the parking lot, feelin’ anxious like I never feel. It’s one thing when you’ve got some fellow hitters or a gangbanger on your tail. You know you can turn around and clip him if things get too wild. But when it’s the cops, that’s another thing altogether. I can’t shoot a cop. It’d cause a goddamn war. When I get to the parking lot, I see two police officers crowding around my car, walkie talkies in hand, one of ’em talkin’ into the walkie. He’s a tall ginger man with a crooked nose. He gestures to the other cop—a short, blonde-haired man with a pointed nose—and both of ’em look up and start scannin’ the area.
“Gonna have to steal a ride,” I mutter, leading Becky away from the motel, into an alleyway which leads to the takeout places and the supermarket. Heads ducked low, we move through the thick sheet of snow, leaving too many goddamn prints, jogging through the alleyway. Becky is panting beside me. Fear, exhaustion, I’m not sure. All I know is she’s gotta keep goin’ no matter what. We both have. Behind us, I hear Gomez roaring at his men, the men roaring back. Sooner or later, they’ll find the tracks.
We burst out onto the supermarket, which is one of those twenty-four-hour ones, its lights shining onto the snow-blanketed winter night. I scan the car park, my eyes settlin’ on a Ford which has barely been touched by the snow, which means whoever owns it just got into the store. And it’s in the corner of the car park, which is another bonus.
“This is somebody’s car,” Becky says as we
approach it. “Can we really—”
I elbow it as I’ve elbowed dozens of car windows before, so that the glass shatters. Immediately, the car alarm starts off, screeching into the air. A few people walking to and from their cars turn to face us. I growl, “Get in, now.”
Becky climbs into the passenger seat. I’m already in the driver’s seat, fiddling with the wires. As soon as I connect the right wires, they sing for me and the car coughs into life, the engine making a sound like someone blowin’ into their hands against the cold. I reverse, skid, and bomb out of the carpark just in time to see a couple of police officers enter from the opposite side, walkies in hand. I see the moment they spot me, but I reckon the snow’s too thick for ’em to be able to read the plate.
For a while, I just cruise us through the city, tryin’ to get my bearings, tryin’ not to freak out that a mob place was just hit. Becky sits pressed against the glass on the opposite side, shivering. I reckon she’s never been in a situation like that. She definitely looks like a rookie, the way her wide, dark eyes are scanning the night. When I stop the car to change it, makin’ her get out, I’m reminded of how she was that first night when I got her into the shower, movin’ with her zombie movements. The next car I can afford to do a little more quietly, with a length of wire taken from Becky’s bra.
“Is this your idea of a date?” she says, a faint smile on her lips, as she removes her bra under her clothes.
When she hands it to me, I strip it, get to the wire, and open the car door. Startin’ it up, I crank the heatin’ on and once again begin cruising through the city. I’m not sure where to go, what to do. I’m not sure…and goddamn, I hate bein’ not sure. The whole point of bein’ who I am is that I’m always sure, I’ve always got a plan. But right now I feel lost.
“Can you take my cell from my pocket?” I ask Becky.
“Sure.”
She takes it, and then says, “Who do I call?”
“Nate,” I say. “He’s my fixer. He’s the one who told me you might be in the warehouse that night. Maybe he’ll have some goddamn idea about what we should do.”
She presses his name and then puts the cell on loudspeaker. It rings, rings, rings, as we cruise through the night.
“Try again,” I tell her, when he doesn’t answer.
She does so, and twice more, but the bastard ain’t answering. I guess it’s late, but even so, Nate is meant to be the guy who never sleeps, the guy in the chair who’s always ready to give me some intel. I stop the car in an alleyway between an apartment building and a clothes store. Someone in the apartment building has their window open. In the reflection, I can see a TV playin’ some action movie, someone passed out on their couch.
I turn to Becky. “I don’t know what to do,” I admit. “I don’t know what’s going on or where the fuck is safe. Anywhere could be safe and anywhere could be dangerous. This is a mess. I know one thing, at least. The police won’t put an APB out on us. The mob’ve got men in the force, and if Gomez and his merry band started makin’ moves in that way, the mob’d find out. So we know we’re up against a few cops, not all of ’em. But a few cops is all you need sometimes. I just…I don’t know what to do.”
Becky smiles at me, but it ain’t a smile-smile. It’s more like the smile you’d give to a big dog who’s lost its bite. I don’t like that one bit, but right now, she might not be far wrong. Fuckin’ mob place raided. Fuckin’ mob place. It’s bullshit.
She reaches across and places her hand on my face, stroking it. It feels damn good, gotta admit. “It’s a lot,” she says. “To process, I mean. To take in. Part of me is still back in the bathroom, getting ready to climb from the window. I can hardly believe we got away.”
I laugh gruffly. “It’s always the same,” I say. “Always the goddamn same. You get yourself neck-deep in blood and you’re always surprised when it washes off.”
She looks at me strangely, like she can’t decide if she wants to be scared of me or not. Then she looks down at the cell and begins fiddlin’ with it. I just sit back, staring at the window as the heater tries to fight away the condensation, as snow settles on the glass. I’m tryin’ to think of something to do, hoping for the cell to ring and Nate to speak up.
After a while, Becky says, “Wait, is today the third?”
“I dunno. Maybe. It was Christmas a couple weeks back, wasn’t it?”
Our Christmas was fuckin’ like wild animals before ordering in pizza from the front desk.
“Yes! I know where we should go, Chance. It’s perfect. We can blend in with the crowd…we can disappear, at least for the day, while we come up with a better plan.”
“Yeah, where’s that?”
“Coney Island!” she cries.
I snort, ’cause the idea is about the stupidest I’ve ever heard. “It’s goddamn snowed over. Last time I checked, Coney closes for the winter.”
“Not tomorrow,” Becky says. “It’s the Solstice Shakedown, when they hire special cleaners and maintenance people just for one day so people can use the machines. I was reading about it online before…well, before all of this craziness started. It’s the first time they’re trying it tomorrow. Apparently, there are going to be loads of people there, I was reading—like, loads. And if you said Officer Gomez is working alone, it’s not like anybody is going to recognize us, is it?”
I shrug. “I gotta feelin’ you have another reason for wantin’ to go,” I say. “But everythin’ you said makes sense, so I ain’t gonna fight it. But first, we need to get some new clothes. Hold on.”
I take my cell, open the battery back, and take out my replacement credit card which sits next to the battery. Then I start the car and drive to another twenty-four-hour superstore, which stocks big fleecy hoodies and thick jeans and boots, pay for it all on the mob’s dime, and then return to the car. An hour later, Becky and I are sittin’ in the car, munching down on some sandwiches, dressed like Eskimos. The heating’s on full blast and my cheeks feel warm. Everythin’ feels warm.
For a few moments, even if everythin’ has gone fuckin’ crazy, I feel like a man who has finally found a home.
Then I push that feelin’ away ’cause it’s goddamn ridiculous.
Even if I am feelin’ closer to Becky, I need to remember that a man like me is never gonna have a home, not really. I’ll always just be a wanderer, cruisin’ through the night and searchin’ for somewhere to rest my head.
Chapter Fifteen
Becky
A huge sign billowing across the entrance archway reads Solstice Shakedown! in dark blue text. The snowfall stopped late last night, as Chance and I were sleeping in the car, my head resting on his shoulder, so that the maintenance people only had to clear it out and warm up the machines. I remember when I read the article that the organizer said he wasn’t sure if it was worth it, bringing everything out just for one special event, but as Chance and I walk through the entrance, I can see right away that it is. People from all over are here, so many that the crowd is thick, impenetrable in some places. People climb onto the Ferris Wheel, giggle as they head toward the Tunnel of Love, hand in hand, prod each other teasingly as they climb into the ghost train ride. Bumper carts and air rifles and cotton candy: all of it combining to make me feel like a little girl again, hand up in the air clutched in Mom’s, wishing the day would never end.
Chance takes my elbow and leads me to the edge of the crowd, near the railing which encloses the attractions, away from the rides where there are fewer people. After so long spent cooped up in the motel, it’s good to be outside. Not that being cooped up was necessarily a bad thing with Chance to keep me warm…But as I watch Chance, his predator’s eyes scanning the crowd, I see at once that he’s not comfortable. He looks out of his element; I get the sense that Chance is more of a lone wolf, the man outside the crowd, watching it but rarely entering it.
I make as though to cuddle into him, but he sort of turns away. Not in a mean way, but a silent way of telling me he’s not comfortable wit
h that. He’s so frustrating. One second we’ll make kissing love in the shower, and the next he won’t even hold me.
We stand here in silence for a time, watching the crowd move by. It’s early, a tiny glint of sunlight shining through the crowds, and there are kids everywhere, running all over the place, squealing at their parents. I watch the kids, thinking about how I was sick over the toilet bowl, thinking about how I must be pregnant. There’s no other possibility. I haven’t had my period in six weeks. What else could it be? I watch the kids and I turn back to Chance and I reflect that the likelihood that Chance and I will ever take our child here, giggling and playing, is low. I can’t imagine Chance dropping his hitter persona and becoming a father. I swallow as that thought works its way through me, making me feel rotten.