Gordita Conspiracy

by Lyle Christie

  We walked to the car, and I kept a keen eye out for the German, but no one followed. We got in, and I fired up the beast, turned on the heat, and let it warm up before pulling out and making a right turn onto highway 1 for the winding drive back over the hill. We had made it about halfway up to the summit when I looked in the rearview mirror and saw headlights quickly gaining on us. Whoever was in that car was driving like a maniac, because they were getting closer in spite of the fact that I was going at a pretty decent pace.

  “Do you get carsick?” I asked.

  “No, I can even read in the car.”

  “Good, because it’s going to be puke city in a minute.”

  Estelle looked at me nervously as I downshifted and brought the turbo charger screaming to life—the added power sending the back end out slightly before the all wheel drive traction control pulled it back into place. I hit the next corner even faster and had to use both sides of the road in order to steer the proper apex and not fly through the thin metal barrier that separated us from certain death.

  “That was a lot less than a minute,” Estelle said, angrily.

  “Sorry, I’m just trying to see how serious the German is.”

  “What German?”

  “The one who has been following us around all day—and is most certainly the same asshole who is chasing us up the mountain at the moment.”

  “Why in the hell would a German be following us, let alone chasing us up this mountain?”

  “Assuming he doesn’t know I’m smuggling a load of wiener schnitzel in the trunk, it probably has something to do with my latest job.”

  We crested the hill and started the descent down into Tam Valley, and it wasn’t exactly the perfect place to lose a tail. The turns were tight, and we had nothing but dead end streets until we got lower into the valley. We came out of a long switchback onto a short straight, and our pursuer managed to accelerate right up to our bumper, where I could now see that it was indeed the Audi S4. It raced forward and gave us a solid bump that sent the back end of the Subaru sliding out, but I corrected and brought the car back in line. I hit the next turn hard, but the Audi managed to stay right on our bumper, and, on the next straight, it accelerated and hit us again. I corrected and kept us on our side of the yellow line, and we barely missed an old truck coming from the other direction. Fuck, I needed a game plan, as our German friend was out for blood, but I didn’t currently have any I could spare.

  I thought about the route ahead and remembered a perfect spot along the salt marsh inlet—assuming we could just stay alive long enough to make it there. Knowing your surroundings was a crucial tool in surviving out in the field, so I would always spend hours studying the maps and memorizing the topography of a location long before I ever put my actual feet on the ground. It gave me a distinct advantage when, and if, I needed to get the hell out of Dodge. At the moment, I was thankfully on my home turf, and, as I knew these roads like the back of my penis, it was time to use that knowledge to get this sour kraut off our ass.

  “You OK?” I asked Estelle, curious how she was holding up in the middle of all this unexpected excitement.

  “Of course. Practically every one of our dates has ended up in some kind of chase.”

  Unfortunately, that was a fairly accurate statement, as back on Soft Taco Island we’d experienced at least three harrowing chases—two in cars and one on foot. I turned my attention back to the road in front of us just in time to round the final turn that brought us into the more densely populated section of Tam Valley. I knew we had a brief straightaway followed by a tight right turn, so I powered out of the corner and shifted quickly up through the gears before slamming on the brakes and making a hard right turn off the main road. The engine screamed as we raced up the small street then made a tight left that sent us skidding onto the next street. This one took us to the other side of the valley, and I used my knowledge of the local area to gain precious seconds before turning onto Tennessee Valley Road and roaring through the gentle curves that led to a tight section where the highway skirted the canal. Now that the German had fallen behind, I hit the brakes at the entrance to Mill Valley’s only cemetery then quickly backed up into its driveway and turned off the lights to wait for my prey.

  The white Audi came roaring by moments later, and I pulled out and followed but kept the headlights off. It was kind of like driving blindfolded, but I knew this particular stretch of highway, so it was just a matter of keeping just far enough away to stay out of the glow of his tail lights until we rounded the turn and approached the place where the road wound closest to the estuary. I hit the gas and slammed into the right rear fender of the Audi, and the impact sent it flying off the embankment and down into the water below. It was close to low tide, so he would be able to get out of the car without drowning, but I didn’t really care considering that he had just spent the last ten minutes trying to kill us.

  I pulled off to the right into a church parking lot, dialed 911, and told the Highway Patrol dispatcher that a lunatic nearly ran us off the road then crashed into the estuary. Five minutes later, a patrol car, a Sheriff, an ambulance, and a fire truck were on the scene. The CHP officer happened to be a friend that I had met several years back while I was teaching an advanced firearms course to the local department. We became friends and often met for coffee or beers, so we could talk shit and hopefully encounter members of the opposite sex. He emerged from his patrol car and smiled and shook his head when he recognized me.

  “What the fuck did you do now, Finn?”

  “Not much, other than avoid being killed by a fucking crazy German.”

  “So, then he lost control and plunged into the drink?”

  “Yeah, though he might have had a little help.”

  “Well, everybody hates a tourist. Now, more importantly—are you going to introduce me to your friend?” he asked, as he turned his attention to Estelle.

  I introduced Estelle to Officer Sean Haverly, and he was of course pretty excited to meet her, in spite of the fact that he obviously spied the engagement ring on her left hand. It wasn’t every day you ran into a woman as attractive as Estelle out on the streets of Marin County. Sure, we had plenty of beautiful trophy wife MILF types running around, but Estelle was in a league all by herself, and I was guessing it was making Sean’s dull night on the highway a hell of a lot more interesting.

  “So, what’s the real story?”

  “This is going to sound a little weird, but the asshole in the car has been following us all day and then tried to kill us on our way back home from the Pelican Inn.”

  “Ex-client?”

  “Nope.”

  “Scorned girlfriend?”

  “Nope.”

  “Scorned boyfriend?”

  “Not this time. He’s a total stranger.”

  The firemen and paramedics returned from the car.

  “The car’s empty,” the lead one said, to Sean.

  “Weird.”

  “Germans are sneaky,” I said.

  “And decent swimmers. Oh well, I’ll have it hauled out and call you if we find anything interesting. You two might as well get going.”

  “Thanks. Have fun tonight.”

  “You too,” he said, with a wry smile.

  We got in the car and headed for Highway 1 then merged into the mild nighttime traffic and onto 101, where we got on the freeway for the short drive to Sausalito. Three turns later, we pulled into the parking lot of my marina and found an open space between two BMW’s—an event which was practically a statistical certainty in Marin County and second only to the likelihood of parking between two Priuses.

  “Nightcap?” I asked.

  “You bet your ass. Goddammit, Finn—is it ever boring hanging out with you?”

  “Sometimes I wish it were.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The Nightcap

  THE DOCKS WERE mostly quiet except for the sound of people’s televisions. Everyone seemed to have flat screens and surround systems these d
ays, so it was no wonder that some ambient noise spilled into the tranquility of the night. We arrived at my place, and I checked the locks for signs of a break-in. It stood to reason that if we were followed around then my house might also have been a target. The locks looked untouched and showed no sign of tampering, so I entered the alarm code, and we went into the kitchen and took a seat at the counter.

  “Rum?” I asked.

  “Hell yeah.”

  I brought out a bottle of Soft Taco Island Rum and poured us each a glass. It was a welcome respite from our exciting drive over the mountain, and I took a long sip and felt the tension ease from my body.

  “So, what in the hell does your latest job have to do with that German asshole?” Estelle asked.

  “No idea, but I think it’s a bad omen this is going to be a tough couple of weeks.”

  “And you can’t tell me anything about it?”

  “Sadly, no.”

  “So, who is it this time? The President of the United States?”

  “No, but it’s a group of people with comparable stature if you can believe it—though I can’t imagine who would be crazy enough to fuck with these fuckers.”

  “Well, powerful people almost always have enemies.”

  “Apparently so.”

  I grabbed the bottle, and we moved into the living room, and I built a fire in the fireplace and joined Estelle on the couch. It would have been a pretty romantic little scene had we not just experienced a potentially deadly car chase—or been under the ominous specter of the fact that my beautiful guest was engaged to another man. I picked up the remote control and brought up Pandora on my Apple TV then chose a mellow indie rock station. With music filling the air, I grabbed the bottle of rum and returned to the couch to refill our glasses, but I was rudely interrupted by the sound of farts blaring from my iPhone. Shit, that was the ringtone I assigned to my friend Sean, and I had chosen it in order to give him a little shit about his propensity for always having gas. It seemed like a funny idea until you were sitting in a quiet cafe or perhaps on a couch beside your former lover.

  “Perhaps you need to go potty,” Estelle said, patronizingly.

  “It’s my fucking phone,” I said, pulling it out of my pocket and holding it up so that she could see that I wasn’t the culprit.

  Fucking Sean—it seemed a little soon for him to have found out anything, so the fucker was probably just calling to get Estelle’s phone number. I begrudgingly hit the answer button.

  “What do you want?”

  “Fuck you. I’m calling with news. It turns out the Audi is registered to a foreign corporation based in Dubai called Vanity Endeavors. Ring any bells?”

  “Nope, probably just a front for some other mysterious asshole corporation.”

  “Oh well, I’ll call if I learn anything more. Estelle still with you?”

  “Yep.”

  “Maybe I should come by.”

  “I don’t have any donuts.”

  “You have something better.”

  “Goodnight, Sean,” I said,

  “Goodnight, Finn,” he said, with a laugh as he hung up.

  I couldn’t blame him for trying, as it was in our nature to seek out attractive members of the opposite sex. I put down my iPhone and turned my attention back to Estelle, and we continued to talk and drink rum, though every second made me remember how much I enjoyed her company. It certainly wasn’t helping that I was looking at her through some pretty serious rum goggles—which, combined with the emotional quotient, was making it a hell of a lot harder to keep Tag Junior from swelling up and making a scene in my pants. Around eleven-thirty, she glanced at her watch and looked a little concerned.

  “Do you need to get back to your future hubby?” I asked.

  “No, he’s visiting his family in Los Angeles.”

  “Are you OK to drive?”

  “Not even close. I’m going to need to spend the night.”

  Gulp.

  “Is that really a good idea?”

  “It’s a better idea than driving, and you never know—it might be fun.”

  “I’m sure it could be fun, but I don’t think your fiancé would be too thrilled.”

  “It’s just a friendly sleepover. Don’t be such a pussy.”

  “What about clothes for tomorrow?” I asked.

  “I have an extra outfit in my purse.”

  “Thinking ahead, I see.”

  “Always.”

  We stood, and I led Estelle upstairs to the guest room.

  “Is this where Bridgette slept?” she asked.

  She was referring to the beautiful woman who had hired me for the Soft Taco Island job, and, while Bridgette might have started the night in the guest room, she definitely ended it in my bedroom—with a bang.

  “Technically, no.”

  “Then I guess it will do. Which bathroom should I use?”

  I showed her to the guest bathroom, got her a fresh towel from the linen closet, then said good night before heading to my room. There, I took a well needed piss, brushed my teeth, and took a shower. Clean and fresh I at last slid into my bed and realized it was good to be home—even more so because I had one of those memory foam mattresses that perfectly adhered to my body, and I had missed its soothing embrace after almost a month away. I looked at the clock and saw that it was twelve forty then turned off the light, lay back, and listened to the sound of running water from the guest bathroom. Estelle was taking a shower, and the thought of her on the other side of the wall soaping up her naked body was not exactly putting me to sleep. Fuck. Sleepovers could be fun, but not if they gave you a world class case of blue balls. The water turned off about five minutes later, and three and half minutes after that there was a knock at my door. It opened, and Estelle stood there with the moonlight reflecting off the bay behind her, and it made her glow like an angel.

  “You asleep?”

  “Not even close.”

  “Mind if I join you.”

  “Yes and no.”

  “Good enough.”

  She walked in and padded across the floor wearing only her thong underwear and a thin camisole top that did very little to conceal her pokey nipples. I tried not to stare, but I unintentionally slipped into man-mode and ended up having a nice long heathy look at them before she slid into bed and wrapped her leg and arm across my body.

  “This feels a lot better,” she said.

  “Yes it does, but that’s the problem.”

  “Oh take a man pill, we’re just snuggling.”

  “Yeah, but you’re going to be snuggling up against my boner any second.”

  “Maybe you should masturbate.”

  “On your breasts?” I joked.

  “Would that be cheating?”

  “Not to an enlightened forward thinking culture.”

  “Then get to it.”

  “Obviously you’re kidding.”

  “I’m not.”

  “Oh.”

  We lay there without speaking, and I spent the time trying desperately to clear my mind of sexual thoughts. Unfortunately, trying not to think about sex is essentially the same as thinking about sex—a pursuit made all the more difficult by the fact that one of Estelle’s breasts had slipped out of her top, inadvertently allowing me to see one of her nipples. I quickly averted my gaze, but it was too late, for the image was burned into my consciousness, and soon, my second brain was springing to life, becoming fully inflated and straining against my pajama bottoms. Estelle accidentally brushed her hand against it and giggled.

  “Wow, I guess you weren’t kidding.”

  “Nope.”

  “Will it keep you from sleeping?”

  “Only if I try to sleep on my stomach.”

  I gazed out the skylight above my bed and saw the moon just coming into view, and it was déjà fucking vu. It had been almost a month ago that Bridgette had crept into my room under a very similar moon, and we’d spent a hell of a night together. Actually, it had been my first sex in almost
two months since breaking up with Melanie, so I had been particularly vulnerable. Tonight, I wasn’t exactly starved for sex, but I was suffering from a phenomena that occurred at the other end of the sexual appetite spectrum.

  A friend had once described sexual appetite as it relates to Newton’s first law of motion, which states that an object at rest tends to stay at rest while an object in motion tends to stay in motion. It made perfect sense, as libido seemed to work the same way. If you were single, or at rest for a long enough time, you got used to not having sex. If you got into a relationship, you became accustomed to the regular sex and wanted to stay in motion, so to speak. Studies even showed that regular sex increased the production of testosterone and, in turn, sexual appetite, thus backing up the Newtonian theory of sex drive. Interestingly, masturbation did not affect the production of testosterone, so a single man whacking away like a mad woodsman would not affect his testosterone level and would, therefore, be somewhat content to continue without sex—and remain at rest.

  At the moment, I was fully in motion having just gotten back from a wild adventure in Europe, where I’d met some incredible women and had gotten to know them in the biblical sense. Testosterone was likely flowing out of my body as easily as the breath from my lungs, and I wouldn’t be surprised to find out that climate scientists were currently tracking my testosterone emissions from space for fear they might be affecting global warming. So, there I lay in my humble bed beside a beautiful half naked woman, all the while feeling utterly helpless in the face of my growing desire.

  “That thing looks painful. If you’re not willing to whack off, then maybe we should have sex—for medicinal purposes,” Estelle said.

  “You have no idea how badly I want to do that—but we can’t.”

  “Why? I’m not married yet.”

  “It’s not fair to your future husband. I wouldn’t want you to do that to me if the situation were reversed.”

  “I wouldn’t do that to you if the situation were reversed.”

  “That doesn’t make any sense.”

  Estelle reached under the blanket and guided my man-child out of its cotton prison, and she began to gently caress it as though it were a purring kitten sitting in her lap.