One Hit Wonder

by Kristi Rose

  It was late evening by the time we arrived. Junkie’s was hopping. A banner stating the cause was strung across the bar, and Becca was making thank-you rounds to a full house. Disco music pulsed through the space while Crenshaw and a female lumberjack-looking woman named Lindy—I was guessing his lady friend from Seattle—were working the bar.

  From here, I had no backup plan. The original was to get Junior to talk. Maybe he’d trip himself up. But with the music, talking was too hard. And Junior wasn’t acting odd. Not like I imagined a person who was doing bad things would act. But maybe he was seasoned and didn’t blink twice at committing a crime.

  Or maybe I was all wrong with my suspicions. But that was unlikely. Particularly when Crenshaw told me he did have a 2008 Shelby GT with the backend missing in the junkyard. He couldn’t definitively say the side panel was stolen, but it definitely wasn’t on the car in the yard.

  The closer we got to closing time, the more the crowd thinned.

  Junior had Precious cornered by the hors d’oeuvres table. He fit the seventies bill with his blond hair feathered back, his white shirt open to the belly button, and heavy gold chains around his neck. His pants were plaid and tucked into black shag boots. Parts of the faux goat fur were matted. Blech, Junior’s taste was gross.

  I made my way to them. This entire idea of trying to trap him was a bust. Leaving was my newest priority.

  “Hey,” I shouted over the music. “Sorry to interrupt, but I’m getting a headache. Are you ready?” I asked Precious.

  “Yes,” she said with a bright smile. “The night was a lot of fun. Thanks, Junior, for all the company.” She looked at me. “Did you know Junior got those boots in Italy when he went last year to visit the Lamborghini factory?”

  Junior faced me, his thumb looped under his necklaces. “These, too, gold is dirt cheap there.”

  “Good to know,” I shouted.

  A second later, three men stormed into the bar. One jerked the jukebox plug from the wall, creating instant silence. The disco ball continued to spin.

  The newcomers were dressed in all black except each one sported a superhero mask and carried a really big gun. So big they hung the guns from straps running across their bodies.

  “Everyone get down on the ground,” Batman shouted as he waved his gun in the air.

  The Hulk ushered Crenshaw and Lindy from around the bar to where the rest of us had gathered.

  “I said down,” Batman roared. “Hands behind your heads.”

  We all dropped to the floor and did as he demanded, me between Precious and Junior. Crenshaw was to the far left of us. To my right were three guys I didn’t know as they’d been more than four years ahead of me in school.

  “Nobody do anything stupid, and everyone will be okay,” Batman said. He strolled between us. “We’re here for the money.”

  “And to set the record straight,” Iron Man said as he guarded the door. “Some poser is pretending to be us and making us look bad.”

  The Hulk was behind the counter, putting money into a pillowcase.

  “That poser might be B-B-Bigfoot,” Precious said.

  No one moved for a beat. I groaned. When Precious got nervous she babbled and stuttered.

  “What did you say?” Iron Man asked her.

  “Some people think it was B—Bigfoot that robbed this place last week.” She looked up, hands still clasped behind her head. “I was kinda h-h—hoping that was true.”

  A few muffled laughs from behind masks. Batman continued to pace. On his third lap, he stopped in front of Junior. “Stand up,” he said and pointed his gun at Junior.

  Junior stood. Batman gestured to Junior’s boots and looked at Iron Man.

  Iron Man said as he approached, “Dude, did you even see yourself in a mirror before you left the house to come here?”

  Junior said. “It’s seventies night.”

  Iron Man pointed to Junior’s boots. “And what are those?” He pointed his gun at Precious. “This your girl? You wear those boots because she has a Bigfoot fetish?” Iron Man snorted. “She’s a looker, but I wouldn’t wear those boots for any chick.”

  I cut my gaze to the side to look at Junior’s boots. The flash of the disco ball was light enough that it cast a shadow in such a way the shag, at this angle, looked like hair. An epiphany exploded in my head. No confession from Junior needed. I had the confirmation I’d been seeking.

  I rolled to my side, careful to keep my hands on the back of my head and said to Junior. “How dare you? Shame on you.”

  Iron Man looked between Junior and me. “What? Is this your girl? Did I just get you busted, man with the girl boots?”

  “No,” I said. “He’s the guy who impersonated you all last week and robbed this place.”

  “Shut up, Samantha,” Junior shot me a look of annoyance.

  It reminded me of the same look teachers would give me when I couldn’t read the text they wanted.

  “What?” Iron Man and Crenshaw said at the same time.

  Disgusted, I said, “The boots. Look at the boots. Given the black and white of the video camera, the dirt on the lens, the wind that night, and the angle of the camera, Junior’s boots look like hairy legs.”

  With disappointment, Precious said, “Aw, man. I really wanted Bigfoot.”

  I said, “Junior stole the car part off the Shelby because he knew his customer could and would make trouble for him. He got caught trying to put generic parts on the guy’s car when he was charging him for OEMs.”

  “Original Equipment Manufacturer. It’s the brand part for the car,” Precious told the room.

  Batman joined Iron Man.

  “That’s not true,” Junior said dismissively. “She’s making all that up.” He circled his finger around his head in the universal sign for crazy.

  I seethed. “You caught Ms. Trina at closing. You robbed the place to cover your tracks because what you were actually after was the car part. In addition, you’ve been using Bart Holland’s identification and approving OEM parts for cars that customers didn’t ask for, aren’t you? And you’re keeping the money. But why rob this place? Why not wait until Ms. Trina left for home?” By this time, I had the room’s attention.

  Crenshaw said, “Because the cameras outside point at the junkyard entrances and slightly beyond. But”—he pointed to a door at the back of the bar— “that goes to the junkyard and there isn’t a camera posted there. I have a few out back that are aimed at the junkyard but the coverage is patchy. It’s easy to move around back there and not get caught on camera. But to get out of the junkyard and not be seen he needed to come back through that door.” He jabbed his finger toward the door for added emphasis.

  Junior’s expression was a mask of calm, but from my position on the floor I watched him repeatedly clench his fists.

  Iron Man said to Junior, “You dirty bastard. Why would you steal from where you live? Rule number one—don’t shit where you eat.”

  “Or sleep,” Batman said.

  Junior leaned toward the masked criminals and said in a stage whisper, “I’m telling ya, she’s a nutter. Not too bright if you know what I mean.”

  He cut me a look full of menace.

  But I was no quitter.

  Junior hadn’t done this alone, and that elusive bit of information was eating at me. “Who helped you? Was it a mechanic from the shop? You didn’t do this alone. Two people held up Graycloud’s diner. Two people had to do this job, too. You couldn’t have carried that part out by yourself.”

  Junior kicked at me, but was stopped by Batman from taking a second swing. “You think you’re so smart, but you don’t know anything.” He faced the superheroes before him, and like flipping a switch, went into full charm mode. The sort that one man used on another when trying to say they had stuff in common. “I apologize for using you all as a cover, but hopefully you understand. The opportunity was too great to pass up, and I essentially killed two birds with one stone.”

  “You’re awful,”
I said. “Ms. Trina lost her arm because of what you did.”

  The Hulk came from around the bar and held up the pillowcase. “We’re set. Let’s blow this joint.”

  “Cut me loose from this,” Junior said. “I need a head start from the cops. You get what I’m saying.”

  Iron Man said, “You think you’re like us?”

  Junior shrugged. “We’re both entrepreneurs. Am I right?”

  Batman tossed a few plastic novelty rings on the floor. A comic book page floated down and landed on the floor a foot away from me. Just as dad had said.

  Iron Man said, “Dude, this is our deal. Our MO. You made us look bad. Clumsy. I’m not feeling benevolent.”

  To the superheroes, Junior said. “I can make it worth your while.” He jangled his necklaces.

  Crenshaw said, “Excuse me, Comic Book Bandit fellas, but I’m the owner of this establishment. Trina was not only my friend, but my employee. If you aren’t feeling so benevolent toward him, then maybe you might feel a little for the man who’s been robbed twice in two weeks. Leave Junior behind and let me deal with him. I got a set of chains in the back of my pickup out there that have his name on them.”

  Junior let his necklaces fall through his fingers. “I’ll give you all of these to start.”

  I said, “He told me he got those in Italy dirt cheap. I bet they’re fake. Was the deer fake, too? How did you manage to make it look like the deer hit your car?”

  Junior bit out a laugh. “Coincidence. Or bad luck. Depends on how one wants to look at it. Had I waited to leave for work at my normal time, I’d have never hit that deer. But I turned that luck around when I had my car stolen. So, you can’t prove any of this. There’s no evidence against me, and I’ll be long gone before these Mayberry cops decide to question me.”

  It was my turn to give a snarky laugh. “You’ll get caught. You know how I know that? You’re sloppy.” I pointed to the three guys in masks. “These guys. They’re not sloppy. Chief Louney knew by the scene at Graycloud’s diner we were dealing with a copycat. Here, too. Even my dad knew this was a copycat deal, and he’s just waiting for the okay before he goes public with it. It was only a matter of time before they figured you out.”

  Batman moved to stand before me. His gun down by his leg. “Who’s your dad?”

  “He owns the local paper. He’s a reporter.”

  From behind the plastic mouth of Batman’s mask, the guy smiled. “Excellent.”

  I turned my attention back to Junior. “And if Chief Louney can’t put the pieces together, you know my dad can. He brought the football league to their knees; no two-bit auto parts conman will outwit him. You go ahead and run, Junior, but you’ll spend half the time looking over your shoulder.” Anger was flowing through me. Anger for Ms. Trina and Becca and all they’d lost and suffered. “And Ms. Trina will have her day in court, and she’ll see you pay for all you’ve done.”

  Junior laughed, tossed his head back and busted out a deep hearty laugh. He settled a moment later and stared at me with dark, soulless eyes. “Who do you think my partner was? Huh? Some guy we went to high school with? Nope, it was the squeaky-clean lunch lady, Ms. Trina herself.”

  The perception of my world and the people in it exploded as my brain processed what he said. Gone was the naivete that came with being ignorant to the seedier side of life. This wasn’t a made-up TV show. People I knew and trusted had shown their true colors. I desperately wanted Junior to be a liar.

  “Dawg, that’s off the chain!” the Hulk said. “This pillowcase of money was a fundraiser for this Ms. Trina, and gold chains and furry boots here is saying she was his accomplice.” He gave a short laugh. “That’s priceless. Guess I don’t feel so bad taking her money now.”

  Batman stared at Junior. “You left a man behind. A wounded man? Or woman in this case.”

  “He wounded her,” I pointed out. “He was in such a hurry to get away, he hit her car, and the force pushed her car into her hand. Could’ve killed her.”

  Junior shrugged. “I did what I had to do.”

  Batman said, “Tie them up. Except for Junior here. He’s coming with us.”

  Chapter Twelve

  They tied us up in pairs. My back was to Precious’s, our hands behind us so that they touched. Crenshaw and Lindy were tied up, and one of the three dudes was hogtied since he was the odd number. They’d blindfolded us and, I was guessing, turned out the lights because everything was dark. The only flashes of light I could make out from behind the cloth covering my eyes were flashes of blue, green, and red. The disco ball.

  Then, as if being held up and finding out Ms. Trina might have been Junior’s accomplice wasn’t horrible enough, the Comic Book Bandits raised the fear level one more notch. They turned on what sounded like an old-fashioned egg timer. Told us to not move until the timer dinged. Or else.

  The tick tick of the timer was unnerving. What if it was more than an egg timer? What if it was connected to something, like those sticks of dynamite Wile E. Coyote always found himself faced with? Dad hadn’t mentioned this tidbit. Since no other place they’d robbed exploded, I could assume we’d be safe. But…

  No way was I gonna hang around and find out. Criminals escalated. That was a known fact and always talked about on true crime shows. They’d been mad that Junior was bringing down their reputation. Maybe that pushed them over the edge.

  “I’m really glad I wore these tap pants,” Precious said. “Or else I’d feel exposed.”

  “Not that anyone can see,” I reminded her.

  I’d asked her to try to stand with me. Currently, we were both in a weird squat position, pushing against each other for leverage. But the task was hard as gravity kept trying to pull us to the side so we were constantly listing and correcting.

  That, and my stupid shoes were sliding on the floor.

  She said, “What if someone is in the room watching us? They can see.”

  “Then I’m sure they’d have busted a gut by now.” We’d fallen twice on our side and had writhed like a fish out of water for a good five minutes before we were able to sit up.

  “My thighs are burning,” she said.

  Mine were on fire. Connected as we were, her trembles flowed through me.

  I sucked in a deep breath and blew it out. “Ready? On three. One. Two. Three.”

  We pushed and strained, constantly adjusting.

  “What do you blind birds plan to do once you’re up?” one of the dudes asked.

  Precious and I teetered and overcorrected, resulting in our heads knocking. We cried out simultaneously, but kept trying to straighten. Finally, we were standing.

  “We’re up, right?” she asked.

  “I think so. Feels like it,” I said. The rope was slack, like it could fall off us, but wasn’t. “What’s the rope hung up on?” I said.

  Precious groaned. “This position with my hands behind my back pulls my shoulders back and my… you-know-what forward.” She cleared her throat.

  “The rope is stuck on your boobs?” I was incredulous.

  Her voice was low. “It would seem so.”

  I laughed. Hard. Until tears streamed down my face. Precious had embraced her abundant chest size the minute she got attention for them in junior high. She’d never complained when cheering or having to run at PE. She was always a glass half full person.

  I finally settled. “I never thought I’d see the day where your chest would keep us from freedom. If that ticker goes off and is followed by something awful, we’re gonna be dead because your boobs killed us.” I snort-laughed.

  “It’s not funny,” she said.

  “It’s really funny,” I said. “At this moment, I’m thankful for my handful-sized ones. I’ll never bad-mouth them again.”

  She sighed. “I have an idea, but I think you’ll hate it.”

  “Hit me with it. What do we have to lose?” It was weird having a conversation with her, our backs to each other, and nothing but flashes of random light.
/>   Precious said. “Remember in cheer when we’d stunt and I’d flip someone over my back?”

  “No.”

  She huffed in frustration and stomped a foot. “What do you mean no? What were you watching at all those games?”

  I stiffened. “Not you! I was busy watching my baton, hoping to catch it and not hit anyone with it.” Being a majorette had been an insanely stressful time.

  Precious’s tone was heavy with annoyance. “After the majorette program was canceled, what did you watch?”

  “The football players and the game,” I said. “Duh. Get on with this. What’s your plan?”

  A silent moment passed. Precious was probably sulking. “We’ll probably end up on the floor again.”

  “What’s the plan?” I said between clenched teeth.

  “Oh, fine already. I was thinking, I’ll lean forward, you on my back, and shimmy the rope down.”

  My mind’s eye refused to create this image. “You think you can shimmy with me on your back?”

  “I knew you wouldn’t like it.”

  “Can’t you suck them in?” Yep, we were going to end up on the floor again.

  “I’d like to see this,” one of the guys said.

  Precious said, “They aren’t inflatable or deflatable. I can’t let air out of them.”

  “How awesome would that be?” another guy said, and he and his friends began to laugh. “Gives a whole new meaning to fun bags.”

  “Shut up,” Precious and I said in unison.

  Tick, tick, tick.

  Crenshaw said, “Girls, focus. Try something. Try anything.”

  I tapped her with my hands. “Okay. Count it down so I’m ready.”

  We both took big breaths.

  “Visualize this working,” she said.

  “I’ll visualize not falling on my head,” I mumbled.

  “Three. Two. One.”

  She eased me into a hands-free backbend. Slow and steady. Our balance was precarious with our hands behind us. I impersonated a noodle. Limp.