Hot Wire (7 page)

"Hey, Stick!" Filthy Al yelled one night while I was hanging around the club house, a cinderblock rat hole on the edge of the factory district. That's what he called me. Stick. "Get over to the shop and talk to Marvin. He's got this car you got to run over to Citrus Heights."

"Tonight?" I loved my job. The money was great. The Vipers were great. They were teaching me how to hot-wire cars and bypass alarms. It was exciting – a million times better than school. You never knew what was going to happen.

"Yeah, tonight." He was this wiry little hillbilly with hair down his back and jail tats all over his arms. "What's the matter? You got a date with that jackoff again? I told that little motherfucker to back off, so you better say no, you hear me?"

He was always yelling, but he didn't mean anything by it. I'd been screwing around with this kid Dweebo who worked in a body shop down the street and Filthy Al was worried I was going to get knocked up or something.

"We broke up," I lied.

"Don't you lie to me!"

"It's true. He's a creep."

"Well, don't just stand there." He squinted at me, scratching his chin. His brain was so fried he probably couldn't remember what we were talking about. "Get your skinny butt over to the shop and talk to Marvin."

The dump was full of Vipers that night. They milled around in their colors – a sleeveless denim vest with a coiled snake over the rocker – shouting and getting loaded, working on their bikes under a Confederate battle flag hanging from the rafters. The air reeked of pot and exhaust from revving choppers. Steppenwolf blared from a set of hot speakers and the club mascot, a one-eared bulldog named Scumbag, ran around barking and begging food. I picked my way through the mob and I had just reached the door when the Disciples invaded the club house.

I don't know how I got out of there in one piece. The Disciples had been warring with the Vipers for months over some drug corners and a bunch of other crap. Fifteen or twenty of them charged through the door, waving baseball bats, knives and iron pipes, yelling like lunatics. I got knocked over and crawled into a corner, trapped in the middle of a riot. The Vipers were so bombed that it took them a minute to realize what was going on and by that time the Disciples were all over them, hooting and cracking skulls, kicking over tables and breaking windows. The lights blew out. Grubby bodies rolled past me on the floor. A Viper smashed a bottle over a Disciple's head and I got sprayed with beer while I was crawling along the wall. Some Disciple grabbed me by the collar and dragged me to my feet, then Filthy Al whacked him across the face with a wrench and the guy stabbed him in the gut while Magic Carpet Ride thumped over the stereo. I ran for the door, dodging a couple fist fights, then a shotgun went off and the TV exploded and I saw a Disciple stagger by with Scumbag gnawing on his leg. I finally made the door and ran through the parking lot, panting like crazy. Sirens howled in the distance. I could see cherries flashing down the street.

Two days later, I called Vincent collect. The Vipers were all sitting in jail and I needed a job.

"What's the matter with you?" he yelled over the phone. "If your old man was still around, he'd kill me for letting you get mixed up with those rejects! You got Child Protective Services hunting all over for you! You know that?"

"Screw them," I said. "I'm never going back there."

He didn't say jack for a minute, then he let out this long sigh.

"All right," he said. "I know how you are. You got any money?"

"A couple hundred bucks."

"OK, then. You get on a bus to San Francisco and come by my place, all right? You got the address. I know this guy needs help, but you got to quit screwing around if you go to work for him, understand? He's an old friend of mine and he runs a serious operation."

Five days later, I was working for Deacon.

The phone on the bedside table started ringing.

I floated out of this black Nothing and opened my eyes, blinking. A ray of light fell through the drapes, glinting on a water glass and the mirror over the dresser. I had to squint to read the digital clock. Four-something a.m.

The phone kept on ringing. I rolled over, groped for the receiver, then banged it against my ear and heard Steffy whispering on the other end.

"Emma?" She came off frantic. "Oh, Jesus, is that you? Emma? Are you there?"

"Steffy," I mumbled. "What's going on?"

"Somebody's at the door," she said. "I heard them try the lock and now they're out there doing something – I can hear them moving around. I'm going to call the cops."

She sounded wasted. I could barely make out what she was saying.

"Listen to me." I sat up, rubbing my eyes. "Have you been jacking up again? If you're tripping out in my apartment – "

"Come and get me!"

"What?"

"You've got to come and get me!"

"Slow down. Tell me what you're..."

The line went dead. No dial tone. Nothing.

"Jesus Christ."

I hung up, then fell back on the pillows and closed my eyes. The call didn't register at first. It was like one of those dreams full of voices that don't make any sense. Then I sat up again. Somebody had tried to get in. She'd babbled something about calling the cops.

A chill squirmed down my back. I grabbed the phone and rang the apartment, jabbing at the numbers on the luminous pad. Nobody answered. When I tried again, I got an out-of-order signal. The piece of junk was dead.

"Stupid idiot."

No telling what had happened. Maybe she'd flipped out. Overdosed. Trashed the phone in one of her blackouts. Maybe she'd picked up a psychotic trick or got in a brawl with one of my neighbors, or maybe it was someone else.

Someone looking for me.

I turned on the lamp, threw the sheets back, dragged myself out of bed. I was still dressed – more or less. I found my shoes and pulled them on, then blundered around until I found my glasses and crap. Then I left, steaming and freaked. If Steffy was fighting with one of her junky friends, I had to get rid of them and calm her down before somebody called the cops or she got me evicted with all her noise. If it was something else, I might have to move again fast. Letting her stay there had been a mistake. A bad mistake. Just add it to the list.

"Moron. Moron. Moron."

It was dead quiet outside. An ice machine rattled. Headlights trickled along the highway a couple blocks away and a million lights sparkled in the Berkeley Hills. Shivering, I walked over to the Dodge, got in and started the engine, cranking the heater full blast and running the wipers to clear the dew off the windshield. I had that wired and vacant feeling I always got on zero sleep, but this was worse than usual.

The channel marker chimed on the breakwater. I pulled out of the lot and drove past the yachts and harbor buildings, heading back to the highway. The dash lights got bleary, so I turned on the radio, punching through the stations for something to wake me up. Elevator music drifted by, mixed up with commercials and late-night jabber, then I found a talk show that was coming through loud and clear. The host was one of those conspiracy crackpots ranting about how the government was going to stage a false-flag terrorist attack in the United States to set up their New World Order and stick us all in FEMA camps. I changed channels and landed on Britney Spears screeching "Till The End Of The World." Jesus Christ. I turned her off mid-squawk.

A pickup full of drunks ran the light at West Frontage Road. I waited for them to go by, then crossed the highway and headed into Berkeley, yawning and trying not to fall asleep at the wheel. I was wrapped so tight I thought I was going to explode, but I kept nodding off at the same time and I had to fight to keep my eyes open. Then I passed Arn's place and saw something that woke me up.

The lights were on in his apartment.

#

It took a minute to sink in.

I glanced at his windows as I drove by, but I was so wasted that I had already gone half a block before I realized what I had seen. No way. It couldn't be. I took the next left, circled around and cruised by again, looking up at his building.

It was true. His lights were on.

I got this surge of elation, but that didn't last very long. He'd probably forgotten to turn his lights off, that's all. I could have sworn they were off when I went by earlier, but I must have been mistaken. Then, just as I was driving by, I saw a shadow move across the blinds in his living room window. Somebody was up there, all right. Maybe it was Arn. Maybe he had escaped.

Or maybe it was someone else.

I couldn't figure out what to do. Turning left on Seventh, I parked in the darkest space I could find, then I turned my lights off and slouched down behind the wheel to get my head together. The street was deserted: porch lights in the trees, black alleys, a circle of streetlight on the corner. I was awake now – wide awake – but the adrenaline made me feel kind of sick. Five minutes passed. If I was going to go up there, I had to get moving. I still had to check on Steffy.

A car turned a corner two or three blocks away, heading in the opposite direction. Its tail lights flashed, then it vanished over a hill. I scanned the houses, the sidewalks, the line of parked cars, then I watched the rearview for a while. A delivery truck passed on University. Two or three cars went by. Then a white van with a couple of whip antennae turned onto Seventh and rolled by my hiding place, its headlights sweeping the windows and flashing off the mirrors. I slid down on my seat, holding my breath, but I wasn't sure why it mattered if they saw me. Then the van turned a corner and the traffic died down again. I was all alone on the street.

I found my cell phone and started to dial Arn's number, tapping at the luminous keypad. The keys beeped, loud enough to hear outside the car, so I disconnected to mute the sound, my fingers twitching as I worked through the screens. Then I dialed him again, sitting back and watching the mirror. The street was so quiet I could hear the pulse thumping inside my head.

Arn's phone rang once. Twice. Three times.

One more ring and I would get his machine. I was about to disconnect when somebody picked up on the other end and the call turned weird and spooky.

Whoever had answered, they didn't say jack. Didn't ask who I was or what I wanted at five in the morning. I clenched up when I realized they weren't going to say anything. I was suddenly scared to open my mouth. Scared to breathe. I had this nasty feeling that I had just screwed up again, but all I could do was sit there with the phone pressed to my ear, listening to them listening to me...

A couple seconds passed, then I heard a radio crackle in the background. Static. A distorted voice. Then it got quiet again.

A cold flush oozed across my skin.

Whoever it was, I could hear them breathing. Air brushed the receiver on the other end, faded away, then flowed back again. The connection had a spacy sound – white noise, an undercurrent of signals and voices from the other side of the planet. Then I remembered that cell phones could be traced with GPS locators and I got this flash of panic.

I disconnected. Turned the phone off.

Checking the street, I pulled out as quietly as I could, took the next corner, then drove another block before I switched on the headlights.

#

Things had changed somehow. I could feel it.

By the time I got back to San Pablo, I expected to see flashing lights and barricades in front of my building, but the street was dark and quiet – so quiet I could hear the traffic on I-80 when I cracked my window. A cold, damp fog drifted through the yards, leaving haloes around the porch lights. I parked two blocks away, hiding the Dodge in the shadow of an oak tree growing beside the curb, then I crept through the service alley back to the building. My apartment windows were dark. No signs of life.

I slipped in through the back door and stood by the laundry room for a while, listening to the sounds of the building. Nothing. The hall leading to the front door was empty. A pipe knocked in the wall. I took the elevator up to five, walked down to my door, then listened at the door for a minute, one eye on the stairwell. Nothing at all. The door was locked. No sign of forced entry. I unlocked it, ducked inside, closed it as quietly as I could, then threw the dead bolt and latched the chain.

The living room was dark and stuffy. Rays of light from the alley fell through the blinds across the sofa and easy chair, reflecting on the TV. I could hear the faucet dripping in the kitchen. The compressor in the refrigerator clicked on with a low hum.

"Steffy?"

I turned on the lamp by the couch and walked down the hall leading to the bedroom. The door was open, fragments of light in the mirror on the dresser. I couldn't hear anything inside the room.

"Steffy?"

Then I turned on the light and saw her.

She was lying on the bed, naked and glistening, hands and feet tied to the bedposts with towels, gagged with her own blouse, her eyes staring vacantly at the water stains on the ceiling. Her arms were covered with skin cuts and burns; somebody had been working on her with a cigarette and a knife, maybe a razor. Her face looked like a fright mask, eyes bulging, the gag so tight that it had cut into her cheeks. She had a black hole in the center of her forehead. Blood had spattered the pillows and pooled on the sheets.