by Zoey Parker
“So he's invisible and she's untouchable. Is that what you're telling me? There's no way to get to him?” I demanded.
“None I know of,” Chucky answered. “Sorry, boy. Reckon if there were, he'd have had me killed by now just fer knowin' 'bout it.”
I knew that meant I'd need to get some useful information from Jewel. Otherwise, I might as well have started looking for a lifelong place to hide. Just because I couldn't find Jester didn't mean he wouldn't get around to finding me.
“Okay, just one more question,” I said.
“Shoot,” Chucky replied.
“When I got put away, the Mancusos didn't have a lot of juice with the cops. I mean, a couple guys on the force here and there, enough to plant some stuff on me for a quick frame-up, but nothing major. Is that still true?” I figured I'd better ask so I'd know whether to suspect any cops we run into of working for Jester.
Chucky pulled off his hunting cap and scratched his flaky scalp, thinking it over. “Hard to say. Used to be the Bonaccorsos controlled a lot've the higher-up cops an' judges, but their whole outfit got damn well nuked last year. Heck, Bard prob'ly told you 'bout that, seein' as how he was the one what nuked 'em. Since then, most've those lawmen have been scramblin' to find someone else to line their pockets. So it could be the Mancusos bought up a few of 'em, but if yer askin' fer a list...”
“No, I understand. Thanks again, Chucky,” I said. “I really do owe you for this, big-time.”
Chucky was sizing me up again and squinting. “You're serious 'bout this, huh? Ain't gonna rest 'til you find a way to bring 'im down?”
“I'm serious. Either that bastard dies, or I do.”
“Uh-huh. Wait here,” Chucky replied. He walked around the front desk, pulled down the window blinds, and locked the door. Then he disappeared into the back room for about five minutes.
When he came out again, he was carrying a green duffel bag that was about three feet long. “Unless you got a howitzer stashed up that skinny ass a' yers, I figure yer probably goin' to war with nothin' but the handgun in yer waistband, right?”
I raised my eyebrows. “Very sharp. How'd you know it was there?”
Chucky rolled his eyes. “Please. Runnin' a motel out here? I c'n spot a concealed weapon on a fella 'fore he walked through the damn door. 'S how come I ain't never been robbed. Ain't never gonna be, neither.” He unzipped the duffel, revealing the polished black surface of an AK-47 assault rifle.
“Wow,” I said, staring at it. I'd seen and fired plenty of guns in real life, but I'd only ever seen the AK in movies, or being held up triumphantly by freedom fighters on the news. It was long and lethal-looking, with a heavy brown wooden stock that looked like it had been through a lot.
“Goddamn right wow,” Chucky agreed, grinning. “If'n yer gonna go up against an army, ya'd better take along a weapon that c'n do the job. Them Commies may have been some evil fuckers, but they made the perfect rifle with this here Kalash back in '47 an' the sucker's still used today.”
Chucky took two cigars from his pocket, offering one to me. I decided not to take it, remembering what he'd been doing in the back room when I came in. He shrugged, put the extra cigar away, and lit his.
“Most rifles these days got plastic parts,” he continued, puffing. “You use the butt of 'em to smack someone upside the head, the guns'll fall apart an' all kindsa screws an' springs'll pop out. Fuckin' junk. But the AK? It don't break, an' it don't jam, neither. You c'n drag this thing through piss, shit, blood, or mud, even take a swim with it. It'll still fire dead-bang accurate every time. My daddy took it off a gook he killed in 'Nam. Figure someone oughtta put it to good use.”
“I appreciate it a lot, Chucky,” I said, “but are you sure? I've never even fired one of these things.”
Chucky laughed. “Hell, boy, that's why it's mostly been used by ignorant-ass dudes in jungles fer 'bout seventy years now! Any fool c'n use it, no training needed.” He pointed to a selector switch with two settings. “There's semi-automatic, an' there's full auto.” His finger rested on the drum of ammunition clipped under the rifle. “This carries seventy-five rounds of 7.62-millimeter ammo. Those things'll chop down trees if you want 'em to. I tossed in a 30-round box clip, too, for backup. Ain't like they're gonna let a jailbird like you buy more bullets, after all.” He pointed one last time. “Oh, an' this here's the trigger, 'case you needed help identifying that. You just squeeze it an' listen to the devil sittin' on yer shoulder, an' everything'll turn out just fine.”
I zipped up the duffel and lifted it, putting the strap over my shoulder. I expected the massive rifle to weigh a lot, but even with the bullets, it was only about fifteen pounds.
“I can't thank you enough, Chucky, really,” I said.
Chucky waved me off. “My pleasure, boy,” he replied. “Maybe you c'n do me a solid someday. If'n you live long enough, that is.”
I unlocked the office door and left, heading back to the room. When I got halfway there, I heard a long, loud scream.
It was Jewel's voice.
I broke into a run. In the corner of my eye, I saw a couple of the other rooms' curtains move aside as the guests peered out.
Jesus Christ, how the fuck could they have caught up with us so fast? I thought. Even if they knew this was a Reaper-friendly joint, which most people didn't, I was sure we had more of a head start on them.
I reached the door and tried the handle, but it was locked. The screaming continued. I fumbled with the room key, wondering how the Mancusos had managed to get in and shut the door behind them. Jewel had seemed way too scared to ignore my warning, so...
“Jewel? Jewel, are you okay in there? Answer me!” I yelled.
I unlocked the door and threw it open, whipping out my handgun. I looked around frantically for the Mancusos. They weren't there.
Jewel was alone. The contents of her purse were scattered all over the floor. She was screaming.
And she was holding her cell phone.
Chapter 9
Jewel
I stayed on the floor croaking and hyperventilating for a long time. As I did, my mind replayed every horrific thing that had happened in the past two hours over and over again on a loop. I focused on every bullet that had missed me, thinking about what it would have felt like if they'd hit me instead.
What would it feel like to be shot in the spine? Or the stomach? If a bullet went into my heart, would I feel it burst? How long would it take to die from that? What if a bullet hit my skull? Would I die instantly? Oh God, what if I didn't?
I'd seen someone get killed, and then I ran away from the scene. I knew it wasn't what I was supposed to do. I was supposed to stay and tell the police what I'd seen so they could catch the person who did it. That was the right thing to do.
So why hadn't I?
Rafe. The murderer had seen me and was going to hurt me, and Rafe showed up. Even at first glance, Rafe had seemed like someone who knew what to do when you were being shot at. In that moment, every survival instinct I had had told me that letting him drag me away was the only way to live through what was happening to me.
And then the shoot-out on Lake Shore Drive. Why were those men chasing us? Rafe had said they were friends of the gunmen in the alley. Were they gangsters? I'd assumed the shooting I saw was some kind of random mugging, but what if it was much worse than that?
And now Rafe had taken us to this weird little motel instead of going to the police, and he seemed to know the owner and what was going on. That was probably what they were talking about in the office. But why hadn't he told me anything? Why was he acting so mysterious?
Who was Rafe? What the hell had I gotten involved in? What if whatever this was, it never ended?
What if I'd never be safe again?
I suddenly understood that if Rafe wasn't going to go to the cops, it must mean he was a criminal himself. I was in a motel room, waiting for a criminal to come back. A criminal who was somehow tied to the terrible thing I'd seen in the all
ey and knew more than he was telling. And the longer I went without calling 9-1-1 and reporting all of this, the more I'd look like I was a criminal, too.
I looked up at the flimsy curtain over the window and realized how desperately I wished there were red and blue lights flashing through them. I wanted the police. I wanted to sit in a precinct sipping coffee and giving my statement, surrounded by friendly cops in uniforms who'd keep me safe from Rafe and the man in the alley and whoever else wanted to hurt me. I wanted a ruddy-faced patrolman to tell me that everyone involved had been arrested and would be going to a prison far away for the rest of their lives, and then offer me a ride back to my safe apartment and my safe job and my safe life.
And if I didn't make that happen before Rafe came back, I might never have another chance.
I reached for my purse with a trembling hand. It fell over, and everything inside of it clattered to the floor in a heap. I felt a surge of panic that felt like a stomach full of crickets, and my lungs finally filled with air. I thought about bullets punching through my body again. When they hit bone, would I feel the shards embed themselves in my surrounding organs? Would...
I heard a strange, shrill sound, like an alarm going off. It took me a moment to realize it was coming from me. I was screaming.
As I pawed through the stuff from my purse looking for my phone, my brain begged my lungs and mouth to be quiet so Rafe wouldn't come running. But I couldn't stop. I'd held in my shock and horror for too long and now it was leaking out uncontrollably in a steady stream, like air from a punctured tire.
My fingers finally found my phone just as I heard the key rattling against the door lock. Rafe yelled my name, asking if I was okay.
I tried to punch in the passcode to unlock my phone screen, but my hands were shaking too badly.
The door burst open. Rafe lunged in, pointing a gun around the room. When he saw me on the floor, he jumped at me, knocking the phone out of my hand. It flew across the room, hitting the bed frame. The plastic casing broke hard enough to expose the phone's innards, and I knew I wouldn't be making any calls on it ever again.
“What the fuck do you think you're doing?” he hissed angrily.
Chapter 10
Rafe
I grabbed Jewel by the shoulders and shook her, trying to get her to stop screaming.
Inwardly, I was kicking myself for letting her keep her goddamn cell phone. She could have called friends, family, or cops and let them know where we were. I'd lose my only potential lead, and Jester would probably have her shot in the head the first chance he got.
But what was I supposed to do? Snatch her purse and yank her phone out of it? Cut the cord on the room phone? That'd make her think I was the reason to be scared, and she'd probably run off as soon as she saw an opening. I needed her afraid of the Mancusos, not me.
The scream died in her throat and she inhaled. I clamped my hand over her mouth, staring into her frightened eyes. “I cannot let you make any calls and I cannot let you scream like that anymore,” I said slowly, enunciating every syllable. “If you do, you will put us both in serious danger, but especially you. There will be more guys with guns and they'll shoot at us again. Do you want to get shot?”
Jewel shook her head slowly.
“Good,” I continued. “Neither do I. Which is why the next time you scream or try to make a call, I'm not going to have any choice except to tie you up and put tape over your mouth, for your own good. And I don't want that. Do you?”
She shook her head again.
“Good,” I said again. “I want us to be able to trust each other. If we do, it'll make things a whole lot easier. So I'm gonna show you I trust you by taking my hand away from your mouth. Then we're gonna sit down calmly and I'll ask you some questions. Okay?”
She nodded. Her breathing was starting to slow down.
I removed my hand and got up, brushing the carpet dust from my jeans. Jewel didn't scream. She just looked up at me, wide-eyed. I offered her my hand. She flinched, then realized what I was doing and timidly grabbed it, letting me help her up.
There was a loud knock at the door. I gestured for Jewel to have a seat on the bed, putting my finger to my lips. She nodded and I opened the door.
A short, grizzled man stood there in a crusty undershirt and boxers, with corkscrews of wispy white hair sticking up from his head. He had thick white stubble on his leathery cheeks, and his eyes were yellowed and cloudy. He had the big, red, pitted nose of a hard drinker. He looked like he was a hundred years old and had hated every minute of it.
“What in the Sam Hill is goin' on in there?” he demanded in a high, trembling voice. “Who's makin' all that racket?”
“I'm sorry, sir,” I said, trying to sound respectful and sheepish. “I was asking the owner for directions and my wife had a real bad nightmare. She gets those sometimes and can't wake up from them. Scares the hell out of the kids when we're home.” I tried to keep my eyes on the old man, but I could see a few people poking their heads out of their rooms, and I knew they'd be listening too. I figured I'd better make it good so none of them would call the cops.
“Anyway, it took me a minute to run back to the room when I heard her and wake her up,” I continued. “I'm real sorry it disturbed you. Probably gave you a heck of a jump.”
“Ain't gonna happen again, is it?” the old man asked, peering past me into the room.
“Definitely not,” I insisted. “It never happens when she sleeps on her side. She just forgot this time.” I looked over my shoulder at Jewel. “Right, honey?”
Jewel nodded. “I fell asleep on my back while watching TV,” she said quietly. “Sorry.” The old man kept eyeing me suspiciously. For a moment, I considered handing him some money and telling him to have a nightcap on me, just so he'd fucking buzz off. Then I realized that would just give him something weird to remember about this whole incident if anyone ever asked him about it. If he thought it was just a random annoyance, he'd probably forget the whole thing by the time he woke up. Life's full of them.
Finally, he nodded to himself and stepped away from the door. “Just keep it down,” he grumbled.
“I will, sir, absolutely,” I agreed. “Thank you. Sorry again.”
I closed the door and turned to look at Jewel. “Thanks for backing me up,” I said. “That was quick thinking.”
“Why haven't we gone to the police?” Jewel asked immediately. “People tried to shoot us. They killed someone. Why aren't we reporting it? We haven't done anything wrong. Or at least...” She trailed off, her eyes searching my face.
So she figured out on her own that I must have problems with the law, I thought. That was pretty fucking sharp of her, given how shaken up she must be. Controlling this situation and maintaining her trust might be harder than I thought. I'd have to cut way back on the tough-guy thing and try not to swear. After a seven-year prison stretch, I figured both would be pretty damn difficult, but I had to try.
“That's a good question, and I can definitely understand why you'd be asking yourself that,” I replied, trying to sound reasonable. “If this was a normal situation, yeah, that would be the thing to do. But those guys who chased us were...” I stopped. “Have you ever heard of the Mancuso crime family?”
Jewel shook her head. “Are they gangsters?”
“Yeah,” I said. “Bad ones. They pay off the local cops and the State Police. We wouldn't be safe with them.” Technically, this was only half a lie. Chucky said the Mancusos might have grabbed a couple more cops here and there for their payroll, but the odds of a vast police conspiracy on their side were unlikely. Still, it was a good story to keep her from calling them.
“Who are you? How are you involved in all this?” Jewel asked.
I did my best to look harmless and innocent. After seven years in prison, I figured I was probably extremely out of practice. “Me? Like I said, my name's Rafe. I'm just a biker. I was passing by and saw you were in trouble. I didn't want you to get hurt or anything, so...”
>
“But you knew who those guys were? How?”
Fuck, she was smart. “The Mancusos own that restaurant you were in front of—Maggia's. All the bikers know that. When you're riding around out there, you learn who the players are real quick, even if you ain't in the game yourself.” I hoped this sounded like the kind of bullshit tough-guy movie wisdom that would be hard for her to argue with. I needed her giving answers, not asking me for them.
“How much trouble am I in?” she demanded. “When can I go home?”