Victory RUN: Collected Victory RUN 1, 2, 3

by Devon Hartford

  Frank leans over and reads my license. He sits back and sighs heavily. He thinks for several moments then finally nods. “I have a daughter too. I’ve seen the look on your face right now on her face many times. I believe you.” He holds out my guitar, motioning for me to take it.

  “Really?” I squeal.

  He nods, “Yes.”

  “Oh my god! Thank you!” I take the guitar and give him a spontaneous one-armed hug and kiss him on the cheek. “Thank you so much, Frank, you have no idea how much I appreciate this.”

  He chuckles, “I think you just showed me.”

  I look down at my Fender. I almost can’t believe it’s back! I thought maybe I’d never see it again. Holding it in my hands feels so good. So natural. “Wow, thank you, Frank. You have no idea how happy I am right now.”

  “I think I do,” he smiles. “Now I just need to find a guitar that makes me that happy!”

  I laugh. “Maybe I can help you find one?”

  At that moment, Felix the salesman walks up. “You guys need any help?”

  “Yeah, actually,” I smile. “My friend Frank needs a guitar.”

  “Oh?” Felix asks. “What kind?”

  Frank nods toward my Fender, “Whatever you have as good as that Strat.”

  “I’ve got just the thing,” Felix smiles. “Do you like Les Pauls?”

  “Sure,” Frank says.

  “Follow me,” Felix gestures, “I’ve got the perfect purple Paul for you over here. I hang it up high on the wall so nobody plays it. I’ve been saving it to sell to someone who can appreciate an awesome guitar.”

  “Let’s see it,” Frank says as the two of them wander down the wall of guitars.

  I’m happy dancing in my head like jumping beans on a trampoline. I actually do several little hops. I got my Fender back!

  Now I just need to find my case for it and I’m outta here with a free guitar!

  My guitar!

  Score!

  There’s no way they’ll make me pay for my guitar once I explain everything.

  I look around for a salesman.

  Chapter 72

  VICTORY

  “Miss, why didn’t you file a police report when your guitar was stolen?” the surly store manager of Guitar Central asks me ten minutes later.

  We’re standing around the counter in the guitar department with two other salesman watching us. I feel like I’m trying to convince a bunch of Flat Earthers from the 12th century that the world is round.

  “Because,” I say slowly, since I’m talking to idiots, “I didn’t have time. It was just stolen and I have to work.” I don’t bother to mention that every spare moment I’ve had in the past several days has been monopolized by a couple of hotties named Kellan Burns and Julian Whittaker.

  The store manager, who’s name tag says Rob, sighs heavily, leaning against the countertop with stiff arms. “We bought this guitar in good faith from a customer. We check the serial number of every instrument we buy against the police database. This guitar was not in the police database. I don’t know what to tell you.” He gives me a resolute look that says he’s not budging. His rigid body language backs it up.

  “But my name’s stamped on the back of the headstock!” I grouse. “Payne! Look!”

  Rob the Knob checks it, but isn’t impressed.

  I whip out my driver’s license, which he reluctantly reads.

  He frowns, “How do I know you’re the same Payne? Or, maybe you sold the guitar last week or last year to the guy who brought it in here. Either way, you can’t have the guitar for free. But we’ll gladly sell it to you.”

  I have no doubt he would. But I’m not giving up. “I’m telling you, Rob,” I sneer, “it’s mine. I’ve had it forever!”

  Rob the Knob sighs and glances at the headstock again. He covers the front of the headstock with his hand then scowls, “If it’s your guitar, what’s the serial number?”

  “I have no idea! Who memorizes their guitar serial numbers?”

  “I do,” Rob chuckles.

  “Of all these guitars?” I motion my arm at the wall of hanging guitars.

  “No,” he says indulgently, “my personal collection at home. I know all the serial numbers off the top of my head. Would you like to hear them?” he asks with superior satisfaction.

  “No,” I spit. I fold my arms across my chest and plant my feet. I’m not going anywhere until I get my guitar back.

  “Look, miss, without a serial number, or some other form of proof, I can’t let this guitar go out the door without you paying for it.”

  Inspiration strikes! I reach into my purse for my cell phone. The first thing I feel is my rainbow rape knife. I briefly consider using it to slash Rob the Knob’s throat before running out the door with my Fender. I grab my phone instead. I speed dial.

  I hold my phone to my ear while it rings. Please answer. If it goes to voicemail, I’m screwed.

  “Vicky! How are you!” my dad answers.

  “Dad! Thank god!”

  “Is something wrong?” he asks in his gravelly baritone.

  “Yes, I mean no, nothing life threatening.”

  “What is it, plum?”

  Dad always calls me plum or any of a million other nicknames.

  I take a deep breath and let it out. “Someone stole my Fender—”

  “What!” he shouts.

  “—but I found it. I’m at Guitar Central in Hollywood. It was hanging from the wall and I found it! But they want me to buy it back. Do you have the paper work for the guitar? Like the serial number or whatever?”

  “Yeah. I have it in the file cabinet here in my office at the shop. Hold on a sec.”

  I can hear an air wrench firing in the background as someone works on a car in the garage. The sound evokes the smell of grease and engine oil and I can totally picture my dad with his work boots up on his old steel office desk and the Mopar calendars hanging from the walls and the cheesecake Snap-on posters with the girls in bikinis caressing socket wrenches. Ah, memories.

  “Found it,” Dad says. “Who are you talking to at the store over there? Put ‘em on and I’ll read the number off to them.”

  “The store manager is named Rob.” I say to Rob the Knob, “My dad has the serial number. He’ll read it to you.” I put my phone on speaker. “You’re on speaker, Dad.”

  Dad asks, “Who am I talking to?”

  “This is Rob Pickford. Store manager at Guitar Central. Who is this?”

  “This is Shawn Payne. My name is stamped onto the back of that guitar you’ve got.”

  Yay, Dad!

  Rob the Knob glances at the Fender decal on the front of the head stock again and nods. He leans toward my phone, which I hold out to him, and says, “Good afternoon, Mr. Payne.”

  “Afternoon, Rob. I got the serial number handy. You ready for it?”

  “Sure,” Rob the Knob says. He keeps his hand over the numbered decal, like maybe I’ll try and read it and shout it to my dad, or maybe Dad will see it over the stupid phone.

  My dad says, “E407777. Lucky sevens.”

  “Well,” Rob the Knob says, “it matches. But that doesn’t prove your daughter didn’t sell the guitar to the third party who brought it into our store this past week.”

  “Look, Rob,” my Dad growls, “Do I need to hop on my Harley and make time down to Hollywood? If my daughter says that guitar was stolen, it was stolen.”

  “I appreciate that you trust your daughter’s word,” Rob Pickford the Dickford sneers, “but that doesn’t help my situation any. Guitar Central paid for this guitar fair and square.”

  “Rob,” Dad says in his booming voice, which is intimidating even on a cell phone speaker, “you don’t want to piss me off. I’m up in Bakersfield but I can be in Hollywood in an hour. If that happens, you and I will not be friends. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

  An amused grin spreads across Rob’s face. In a voice that is half laughing, half disbelieving, he says, “Are you threateni
ng me, Mr. Payne?”

  “Yes.”

  Silence hangs in the air, its feet dangling as it sways side to side at the end of a hangman’s noose.

  My dad rocks.

  The two junior salesmen have surprised looks on their faces. They look at Rob, their leader, waiting to see what happens.

  Rob the Knob says confidently, “Please come down, Mr. Payne. I’d love to meet you. And I’m sure you’ll be happy to explain yourself to the police.”

  My dad chuckles, “They’re not going to hang around at your store waiting for me. You’re not the President of the United States, my friend.”

  “Be that as it may, I assure you, Mr. Payne, if you come down here looking for trouble, I will call the police.”

  “That’s it,” Dad says, “I’m getting on my hog right now. I hope your health insurance is paid up, buddy.”

  “Dad,” I say soothingly, “Don’t.”

  There’s a long pause and I hear my dad sigh. “What do you want me to do, princess?”

  I smile nervously at Rob and say, “Just a sec.” I take the phone off speaker and hold it to my ear. “Hey, Dad. I’m off speaker.”

  “I’m sorry, plum. I shouldn’t have lost my temper like that.”

  “It’s okay, Dad.” My dad has been in jail for fighting more than once. He knows better, but I guess he doesn’t think when it comes to me. He gets protective. I’m grateful but also wish he wouldn’t be so quick on the trigger. If he was here, he probably would’ve decked Rob the Knob instead of saying anything. Luckily he wasn’t here.

  Dad says, “Do you want me to pay for the guitar, plum? How much is it? I’ll cover it.”

  I haven’t even looked at the price tag. But I know my dad doesn’t have money to spare any more than I do. “No, Dad. I’ve got money. I can pay for the guitar.”

  “You sure?”

  “Yes, I’m sure,” I smile. My dad would give me his last dollar if I asked for it. He’s the best.

  “Then I guess you don’t need anything from me? I’ll come down if you do.”

  “No, Dad. Thanks. I’ll handle it.”

  “You sure?”

  “Yes, Dad!” I laugh.

  “Okay, plum. Call me if you need anything. Or call just to chat. I haven’t talked to you in a long time. You need to tell me what’s going on in your life. And when’re you gonna visit me in Bakersfield? I haven’t seen you in ages and the guys in the shop miss you.”

  “Oh, Dad, I have so much to tell you. Maybe I’ll call you tonight?”

  “I would like that.”

  “I gotta go.”

  “I love you, Vicky.”

  “I love you too, Dad. Bye.”

  I end the call.

  Rob the Knob smirks at me and arches his eyebrows, “I hope you don’t think I’m letting you buy this guitar after that performance.”

  “What!”

  He shakes his head, sneering, and sets the guitar on the counter. He plants his hands defiantly on his hips.

  “But I’ll buy it!”

  “No you won’t.” He turns to his salesman. “Don’t sell this guitar to this girl. In fact, don’t sell any guitars to her. What was your name again, miss?”

  “I’m not telling you!”

  “Oh, I remember. Victory. And your last name is on the back of the guitar. Payne. That is your last name, isn’t it?” he says sarcastically.

  “You’re a prick, Rob!” I blurt.

  “Yeah,” he sneers smarmily, “I am. My last name isn’t Pickford for nothing.”

  “Do you want me to call my Dad?!” I say suddenly desperate. “I will!”

  “Go right ahead,” Rob the Knob says.

  He called my bluff.

  There’s no way I’m calling my dad now. He’d kill Rob if he knew what just happened.

  Rob looks at the two salesman beside him, “Gentlemen, please escort the young lady onto the street. Politely.” He gives me another shitty sneer. “Have a nice day.”

  Fuck.

  What do I do now?

  Chapter 73

  VICTORY

  “Don’t touch me!” I bark at the two salesmen as one tries to guide my elbow. “I’m going, douchebag!”

  The next thing I know, I’m out on the street.

  I turn around and stare at the giant Guitar Central building and its twenty foot cement walls. Right now, it resembles a mammoth castle. The framed ten foot photos of guitar icons remind me of the royalty on playing cards: Kings, Queens, and Jacks. Above it all, they look down at me with marked disinterest.

  “Damn it!” I shout, clench my fists, and stamp my foot. “Fuck you, Rob the Knob!” I indulge in my tantrum momentarily, feeling like a little peasant pounding on the gates and demanding to see the king to no avail.

  A minute later, I’m done.

  People on the sidewalk are staring at me.

  One is a bald guy walking by in a disheveled white dress shirt and ill fitting gray slacks. He holds a Jack In The Box sack and sips on a soda while eyeballing me furtively.

  “WHAT!” I challenge.

  He hunches his shoulders, sucks extra hard on his empty drink which bubbles a barking protest, and walks past quickly like I’m a bomb about to go off.

  I sort of am.

  I need to deal with this.

  I need to find an Ace to win this game.

  Before Guitar Central sells my guitar to someone else.

  I pace up and down the sidewalk in front of the store, thinking through my options. I could run in and steal my Fender. Rip it right from Rob the Knob’s cold dick-like fingers.

  I picture three guys tackling me on my way out the door. My Fender pops out of my hands as I hit the ground. It then pogo sticks across the sidewalk on its headstock, snapping the neck from the body. The mangled mess then leans against a parking meter. Bad idea.

  Next.

  Maybe I could send someone inside to buy it for me.

  That’s it!

  But who?

  It has to be someone I can trust with my money, or someone who trusts me that I’ll pay them back. Kellan? No, he’s probably still at work, way over on the west side.

  Liv!

  I dial her number but it goes to voicemail. I need someone now.

  Julian! He lives close by! He’ll totally do it! Heck, he’ll probably offer to buy it for me!

  I dial his number.

  A second later, the phone answers. Yay!

  “Hello?” a female voice says.

  “Is, is this Colette?”

  “Speaking?” It’s her.

  “Colette, this is Victory Payne. Is Julian there?”

  “I’m afraid not. He’s in Stockholm for another week at least,” Colette says in her gentle European accent.

  “Where?”

  “Stockholm, Sweden.”

  Geez, Julian sure gets around. No way he’s jumping on a rocket to bail me out of this mess. “Okay, thanks.”

  “Would you like me to relay a message to him?”

  “Uh, not really,” I say, disappointed. “Hey! Is Max in the studio?” I ask hopefully.

  “No, Max is in Stockholm with Julian.”

  “Oh. Okay. Thanks.”

  “Is there anything I can help you with, Victory?” Colette asks. “You sound agitated.”

  “No, I’m fine. Thanks for asking, Colette.”

  “My pleasure. Anything else.”

  I sigh, “No, thanks.”

  “Ciao,” Colette says and ends the call.

  Crap.

  I eye Big Momma’s down the street. Johnny and Karen are probably both there. I shake my head to myself. I can’t ask them to buy the guitar for me. I already owe them way too much, including the $6,000 for the Contrares.

  I sigh. Fuck. What do I do?

  The front door of Guitar Central opens and Frank walks out with a Les Paul guitar case by his side. He turns and walks up the sidewalk.

  I stare at his back for a long time, then suddenly shout, “Frank!” and run after h
im.

  Frank is my Ace.

  He will be my winning hand.

  He doesn’t hear me. It’s a long block, and there’s a lot of traffic noise from all the cars on Sunset Boulevard.

  I shout again, more desperately, as Frank turns the corner at the end of the block. “FRANK!!” I round the Guitar Central building at a dead run. “FRANK!!!!” He probably thinks I’m a mugger.

  I turn the corner and nearly run him over. “FRANK!!!!”

  He looks surprised. Well, shocked and about to have a heart attack is more like it. He chuckles, “Victory? Are you okay?”

  I’m breathing hard from the sprint. I must look half insane. I certainly feel 90% bonkers. “I need your help!”

  “Is something wrong?” he chuckles. I’m sure he’s totally confused by my behavior.

  I nod breathlessly, “I’m fine. But I need you to buy that Fender.”

  “What?” he laughs. “I thought you were going to buy it.”

  “I was, but—” how do I explain my dad pissed off Rob the Knob “—well, it’s complicated. They won’t sell it to me.”

  “What? Why not?”

  I’m gonna have to tell him. “I got my dad on the phone, he had the guitar serial number and paperwork and everything, but when the manager wouldn’t give me the guitar for free, my dad sort of… threatened him?” Yeah, it sounds bad.

  “He what?” Frank laughs.

  “He, uh…threatened the manager?” I squint and my face screws into a knot. This is really embarrassing.

  Frank shakes his head and chuckles, “Your dad must really love you.”

  I nod, “He does.”

  “I can relate. What do you need me to do?”

  Surprised, I say, “I just need you to go in and buy it for me. But I’ll totally pay for it. I have cash and everything. Right here in my purse.”

  Frank glances at my purse while I’m digging through it. For a second, I feel like he’s going to purse snatch my money.

  Instead, he looks me in the eyes and says, “Okay. I’ll do it.”

  Now I’m suddenly nervous. I have to hand a huge amount of money to a relative stranger. Can I trust this guy? I give Frank a visual once over then check my gut. Ms. Gut tells me that Frank has an honest vibe. And he has a daughter, which means he can’t be all bad.