by Dick Wybrow
"Oh," the Actor said. "Right. Good point. He must have just gotten home from terrorizing the locals."
"Or a snack run," Uncle Jerry said, smiling. "Little Pablo likes his ice cream before bed."
They skulked down closer to the garage, keeping an eye out for any wandering men with large rifles. Seeing none, they came up beside the large black vehicle, and Uncle Jerry put his hand on its hood.
He mouthed the word, Warm.
Anza nodded and looked around. It was as good a time as any. Crouched low, she dashed across the driveway and slipped into the garage.
From beside the SUV, the other two just watched, mouths hanging open. Then, not to be outdone, they followed, eyes darting left and right to make sure they weren't seen. The three of them squatted between the two fancy cars.
"Okay," Anza said, smiling as the other two came up next to her, breathing heavily. She spotted a rack with hooks next to the door leading into the house and dashed there next.
Uncle Jerry and the Actor whispered feverishly, waving her back.
For a few seconds, she scanned the key rack then returned. She dumped all the keys she could grab on the ground between the two cars.
"Is any of these the key we are needing?"
The Actor looked down. There was the key for the SUV, another for the Jaguar. The third was a fob at the end of a leather strap. He smiled, reading the word.
"McLaren," he said. "I was right."
Uncle Jerry said, "Nice spotting. You know your cars, man."
"Well, in my line of work—"
"Shh!" Anza said. "Is any of these the one we need?"
Uncle Jerry looked down at the keys then at his hands. Then he looked at his friends.
"Ah, no," he said. "It'll be inside."
The Actor sighed. "Shit. Fuck. Shit-fuck."
"Would he have it in an office or in his bedroom or where?"
"It will be…" Uncle Jerry said, speaking slowly. "Wherever Silvio is. He'll have it with him."
The Actor groaned, but Anza waved him off.
"So we wait until he falls asleep, sneak in, then pull it out of his pocket. Is no big deal."
Uncle Jerry looked out into the night, sighed, and shook his head. "It won't be in his pocket," he said. "It will be wherever he is."
Anza caught the expression on his face. "What does that mean?"
"The key is biometric," the old pilot said. "It's his, you know, bio. We've got to get that to open the electronic door to the hangar."
"What does bio mean?"
"Biography," the Actor said. "We'll need to read his biography into a small microphone next to the hangar door—"
"No, no!" Uncle Jerry growled. "It's biometric. So it's coded to his thumb print. We need to steal that."
"How do you steal a thumb print?"
Uncle Jerry shifted from foot to foot. "Well, it's on his, you know… thumb."
Chapter Twenty-Eight
"This is batshit," the Actor said, looking down at the useless pile of keys.
Anza put her arms out, braced one hand on the Jag, and made a small fist with the other. She said, "I am not… I don't understand. We need his thumb?"
"Right," the old pilot said. "I expect he won't give it up freely, so you know, we'll have to…"
The Actor filled in the blank. "Take it?"
Anza shook her head. "We are not taking the man's thumb! That is loco!"
Uncle Jerry slowly shook his head then raised his shoulders. "It's how we get into the hangar. The biometrics are coded to thumb prints." He pointed at the black SUV. "His."
Anza slumped back against the sports car and closed her eyes.
"What if, instead of cutting the finger off," the Actor said in a voice that sounded like he may have used it in a made-for-TV movie, "we find a wine glass, or whiskey glass, and scan that for a print, then we project that print onto the biometric pad? Then, presto, the door unlocks."
The one woman of their tiny group cracked her eyes open, eyebrows knitting in the middle. "How do we do that?"
"I don't know!" the Actor said. "I just came up with the idea. You're the big planner, so plan it."
"It's a dumb idea," Uncle Jerry said.
"It's not dumb!"
Anza said in a low voice, "How is it to scan fingerprint on the glass? How do you do that?"
"I dunno," the dwarf said then pulled out his iPhone. "It's gotta be an app, right?"
"No," Uncle Jerry said. "I think that's only in movies. We need his thumb. Maybe we just wait until he's in bed, tie him down, and take it then."
A growl came from Anza. "This is a no-digit-cutting operation!"
"You got any better ideas? Razzie's already headed out with that homicidal cowgirl, and the only way we're getting out there any time in the next few hours is sitting in that hangar down there," Uncle Jerry said. "Now, I can fly 'er, but I can't do it without sitting in the pilot's chair. And that ain't gonna happen by hopin'."
"This is… so bad! I don't even—"
Before Anza could finish her sentence, the garage door began to come down.
"Shit!" the Actor called out as they all scrambled to their feet.
But despite all of them making a quick sprint for it, the door was moving too fast. When the door came down—on an automatic timer—Uncle Jerry and Anza stood and could only stare at it.
From the other side, they heard, "Hello?"
The pilot looked around and noticed they were short one person. He tapped softly on the door and whispered, "Actor? You got out?"
It was quiet for a moment, and the two of them exchanged wide-eyed glances.
"Uh," the muffled voice said. "Ran under the door. First time it paid being, you know, this short. I guess."
Anza closed her eyes. "This is now worse." At that moment, the automatic door light above them ticked out, and they were plunged into darkness. "And, is now worser."
"Hey," the Actor said, his voice strained. "I don't wanna be out here by myself. Lemme in!"
Uncle Jerry thumped the door, which made Anza yelp then shush him. He said, "How the hell we supposed to do that?"
Outside, the Actor was quickly chattering about finding keypads or interior buttons, but it all turned into a panicked drone as the old man felt Anza take his hand in the dark.
A sob caught in his throat, and he felt himself nod. "I gotta go get a thumb, don't I?"
Anza made a soft noise. After a long pause, she said, "We need to get into hangar, yes?"
"Yes."
Another pause, then, "Yes."
With the Actor still chattering outside, they shuffled toward where they'd seen the door to the house before everything went dark. Uncle Jerry stumbled over something and caught himself before he fell but not before they heard some sporting equipment fall from a metal shelf.
They could only wait as they listened to a ball languidly bounce deeper into the garage. Put-put-put-put-putputputputput…
Then silence again.
Outside, the Actor, too, had become quiet.
The old pilot reached for the door and turned the knob. As he leaned forward to push it, he felt Anza put a hand on his shoulder and give it a squeeze.
A bright thin line spilled into the dark room, and it looked like a prison searchlight. Anza squeezed a little harder then muttered a soft sorry. They moved forward, pushing the door open on its hinges, which were, at the moment, silent.
In front of them was a sort of mudroom but long and thin. A washing machine and dryer lay to their immediate left. A basket of laundry sat on top of the machines. Through the plastic mesh, Anza could just make out the bright colors of a little boy's clothing.
She swallowed back a small cry. Uncle Jerry, without turning, put a hand on top of hers and gave it a squeeze of his own.
They moved from the garage into the long hallway, and the air turned from muggy to dry and cold in an instant. In the distance, the sounds of a television. Uncle Jerry stood for a moment as he turned to close the door. Then he thought bett
er of it and left it open.
If Silvio saw it, it could raise the alarm—would he think he'd left it open? But if they needed to run, their best bet may be firing up one of the sports cars and smashing through the garage.
His heart turned cold at the thought of his ramshackle plan. They'd left the keys on the concrete floor between the two cars.
Then Anza caught his eye and held up the key fob for the Jaguar with a small smile. A funny thought came to the old man's mind. He really would have preferred the McLaren.
He started moving forward again, and Anza tugged on his elbow, her face soft but her eyes wild. She mouthed the word kitchen.
Right. The kitchen. Because if they were planning on a little thumb stealing, they were going to need a knife. This new thought made his stomach twist. Could I cut off a man's thumb to help save my friend?
Then he thought about being held prisoner by the man, the beatings and the long days when the food never came. And he thought, Just in case, maybe we need the whole hand.
As they crept forward, they could see, just beyond a set of hooks at the end of the hallway were rows upon rows of silvery pots and pans and cooking implements hanging from a rack in the ceiling. They swayed slightly, twinkling from a light source coming from deeper in the house.
At least, the kitchen was dark.
In unison, they took a deep, calming breath, but then each of them suddenly held it. A tall shadow lay across the doorway.
They froze. Anza looked back to the pitch-black garage, trying, in her mind's eye, to remember its layout. But they couldn't run back, get in the car, fire it up, and get out of there if the man standing in the hallway was carrying a gun. Maybe he wouldn't be.
No. Hearing an intruder in the night, of course he would. Hell, he was a drug lord. The guy probably slept with one.
Uncle Jerry started to move forward again, clenching both fists, but Anza tugged him back slightly. She pointed to the garage, pumping her eyebrows. Let's get out!
But the old man had come that far. They were in this thing. It was now or never. He steeled himself to step forward, but before he could take a step, the shadow moved closer, so Uncle Jerry planted both of his feet, readying himself, raising his arms, hands balled into fists, and waited.
Once he saw the head, he could club the guy with a fist. Maybe he would go down with one hit. That way, they wouldn't have to creep around the house. That was how it was going to happen. It was good. The shadow moved forward, but when the head did, in fact, come around the corner, it was about two feet too low.
He flinched and looked down.
"Uncle Jerry?" Pablo whispered. "¿Qué estás haciendo aquí?"
Both adults froze, waiting for some sound from the other room, but so far, it was just the television.
The boy came fully into the doorway, his tiny body casting a long shadow from the light of the living room. Anza put her hand to her mouth, stifling a small cry as she saw the scared little boy standing there in his Spiderman pj's.
With nothing to lose, Uncle Jerry waved the boy closer. He took a step forward then hesitated and stepped back. He turned to where the sound of the television was coming from. If he called out, it would be over.
"Pablo, mi amigo," Uncle Jerry said softly. "Pablo, Pablo."
The boy turned his body toward the light, but then swiveled his head toward the old man. A flurry of emotions ran over his face, then he wore a small, sad expression. Pablo said, "¿Libro?"
Uncle Jerry stood for a moment, trying to work out what he was saying. Is it a warning? Is he asking for ice cream?
Again, the boy said, "¿Libro?" Then he shrugged his tiny shoulders, hugging himself at his waist. He looked around sheepishly and shrugged again. "Libro. Uh, book?"
"Book?" Uncle Jerry whispered. "No, no, Pablo. Maybe later, yes?"
The boy nodded, disappointed, but his was a small face that seemed all too used to disappointment, so he shrugged it off and began to step closer.
Then, for the first time, he caught sight of Anza, and his eyes got very large. He took two steps back, his little legs bracing, feet pointing in different directions.
Uncle Jerry slowly raised his wrinkled fingers and said, "Friend. She's an amigo of mine, Pablo. Amigo."
"No," the boy said, slowly shaking his head.
"Yes, yes," Uncle Jerry said, speaking faster now. He reached back and gave Anza a slight push. Then he quickly flashed her a glance.
It was dark, and she could see only the whites of the man's eyes, but it was clear enough. Run!
The boy said, "No amigo."
The old man's arms tingled as ice began coursing through his veins. But before he could once again protest, the boy held up a finger and pointed.
"No amigo," he whispered. "Girl, no amigo. Amiga." Then the boy's face broke into a brilliant, beautiful expression.
Uncle Jerry nodded, his mouth watering, and there was a slight taste of blood where he was sure he'd bitten his tongue. "Yes," he said, nodding again. "Yes, amiga."
The boy smiled again, apparently wanting something in return. Again, he said, "Libro now?"
A warmth passed over Uncle Jerry, and strangely, in that moment, there was nothing more in the world he wanted to do than read the boy a book. Or that was, tell the boy a story while reading a book he couldn't understand.
Slowly, the man shook his head and said, "No, no. Go play, por favour."
"No play," the boy said, sounding dejected.
"Yes play," Uncle Jerry said. "Go play… Legos. You like Legos, yes?"
"Legos?" The boy's eyes went big. "Legos is okay?"
"Si, si." He nodded. "Go play Legos."
The boy sighed then shrugged. He looked toward the light in the living room, as if considering something for a moment, then smiled a devilish smile and said, "Okay."
With that, he turned, walked through the darkened kitchen, and disappeared deeper into the house.
Uncle Jerry turned toward Anza and, without a word, gave her a big bear hug. Both of them were already covered in sweat. She patted the man on the chest with her hand, their breaths now coming out in heaves.
"Boy loves his Legos, man," he said, and she laughed without a sound.
Then they started toward the darkened kitchen.
* * *
Sally had been right. The moment we got back on the highway, the two bikers who'd been coming up the road hit the gas to catch up. I recognized one of them from back at the restaurant, the chubby one I'd called Chicken Wing.
In my mirror, he was grinning wildly, stopping every now and then to spit out bugs. There was a line of dried blood just below the food stains I'd seen earlier.
I felt a few heavy taps on my shoulder and nodded, twisting the accelerator. Bucephalus growled, and we easily left the two guys in our dust. It made complete sense to me why Sally would have ripped off the amazing machine. Of course, it also made complete sense that the person she'd stolen it from would want it back.
Ahead, Digger and three others were blocking the highway, rifles and shotguns pointed our way.
"Shit!"
To our left was all scrub and desert, uneven terrain. I felt that the bike could maneuver that but doubted either of us could hold on and would be thrown to the ground.
"This has definitely gone fakakta!" Sally shouted in my ear. "Go through 'em!"
I shouted back, "They've got shotguns! We'd be peppered before we broke through!"
"Well, you would be!" she shouted, and I could hear the smile in her voice. "You're like one of them human shields to me."
It may have been better to spin around and head the other way, find another route to head west. But like Sally had warned—they'd come from all sides. I knew back there were at least two more of Digger's bikers headed our way.
Then, about a hundred yards from where they were blocking the road, I noticed a trail that cut between two steep hills.
Sucking in a deep breath, I shouted, "Hold on!" leaned down onto my right knee, and banked the b
ike down the trail.
Behind me, I heard shotgun blasts filling the air. The sounds of them ringing off the canyon sides made my head spin. My mirrors were shaking because of the uneven ground, so for a quick second, I had to turn my head back to see them. Four of them were coming our way, with the other two no doubt close behind.
But I'd looked away too long, and when I turned back, in front of me was a massive boulder. We glanced off of it, hard, and the bike bucked in the air, then I felt Bucephalus take over, gunning its engine, which steadied the wobble.
Sally had one hand on the seat and one on her pistol, firing behind her.
Once we straightened out, the bike revved so high that when it hit the rock and grit below, we launched forward and it took every ounce of my strength to hold on. I yelled against the pain but was able to pull my feet back down on the pegs.
Sally, however, was gone.
I had a thought I wasn’t proud of. It was shitty, but if I could find a way out quickly, I would have a clear shot to California without her.
* * *
Uncle Jerry and Anza stood in the darkened kitchen, letting their eyes adjust. It was hard because, with the bright light of the living room pouring across the hallway, it made it nearly impossible to see in the dark.
After searching the counter for a large sharp knife—or even a small sharp knife—they came up empty-handed and began quietly rifling through drawers.
They found more utensils, plastic lids, then an entire stash of cutlery. There were forks, spoons, and table knives but no real knives. That was, nothing to cut off an incapacitated man's thumb.
As they searched, the strangest feeling came over Anza. It took a moment to put her finger on it, but when she realized what it was, she stiffened, and her jaw clamped down so hard it hurt. They were being watched. She thumped Uncle Jerry on the leg, and he swung back, catching her expression. He froze.
Tracing her eyes around the room, she looked back into the darkened garage. Nothing there, or if anyone was, she would never see them. The dining room on the far side of the kitchen was dark and quiet and perfectly arranged as if it were a museum to the modern home. Places were set for six, napkins folded into shell shapes, perfectly aligned silverware on either side. Each chair was pushed in at the exact same distance as the next.