Ill Will (18 page)

I blew though an intersection, horn still blasting, trying to warn any oncoming cars. A truck was there. He let me through, then foolishly decided it was his turn, crossed, fishtailing to get out of the way of Dudley’s speeding vehicle. The virtues of looking both ways.

St. Claude was next. I slowed minimally. If I got in a car wreck, Dudley would have an easy shot. But he was closing the gap and my choice was between risking a wreck or being shot. Nothing like having options.

Again blaring the horn as I hit the intersection, my car squealed into a right turn. I was lucky; traffic going this way was light and the closest car was a good half block away.

There is a stoplight at the last street before the bridge. Car chases in the movies are fun, in real life not so much, more like traumatic—at each turn I risked wrecking, hurting someone, and/or being caught by someone wanting to kill me.

Dudley was gaining on me. He seemed to think his truck was big enough to plow through any crash and he wasn’t worried about stray dogs or school children. He careered around the turn barely half a block behind me, causing the oncoming car to brake sharply and veer left to avoid him.

He stuck his hand out and took another shot. I heard something skim across my roof.

I wondered if my insurance would cover this.

On this straightaway, he was gaining quickly on me.

I have a sensible car, a little Mazda, peppy enough but not designed to be a king of the road. Dudley’s truck, on the other hand, was clearly a powerful puppy, meant for macho posturing and passing the peons.

The light was green.

Dudley stuck his hand out for another shot.

I veered into the left lane.

Another wild shot.

He was still gaining. He jerked into the left lane behind me, closing the distance. I could hear the roar of his engine.

I was rethinking my decision to head to the Lower Ninth Ward. Once there it would be impossible to shake him. He had speed and power over me. A more maneuverable car was my only advantage. Maybe I could let him get closer and do a quick turn at one of the side streets and he would overshoot. That might not slow him down much, and he still had a gun and there were still too many people around.

But whatever I did had to be mere seconds away. The bridge was a scant two blocks farther, and if I went over it, then I was committed.

Then I had an idea. A desperate, last-chance idea.

He was no more than twenty feet behind me.

I steered to the left, going into the left hand turn lane at the road immediately before the bridge.

Just as he started to follow me, I jerked back, veering all the way into the right lane.

And then at the last of the last seconds, went even farther right into a little side street that ran parallel with the bridge. It dead-ended at the bank of the Industrial Canal.

His heavy truck couldn’t correct in time. He tried to follow me, but the momentum of the truck was too fast and he couldn’t get over far enough. Then he desperately wrenched the steering wheel as he tried to avoid crashing directly into the guardrail. He managed to avoid a head-on collision, instead sideswiping it, the impact so hard I thought the truck would roll over the rail and crash onto the pavement below.

Metal screamed, a sickening screech that went on and on.

My little side street was empty, a cul-de-sac of a few houses before the canal. I braked as rapidly as I safely could.

I could no longer see much of the upper roadway. The embankment hid most of the street.

Just because he crashed didn’t mean he was dead, or even really hurt. That big truck could protect him. I couldn’t depend on him being too stupid to wear his seat belt.

I quickly started my car again, backing up a little to make a right turn onto a side street that would take me away from St. Claude and the wreck. I wasn’t leaving, but getting out of shooting range. I did another turn, now out of sight of anyone on St. Claude, then pulled to the side of the road and found my cell phone.

By now 911 had to have been called. There were too many cars and people around to witness Dudley’s spectacular crash.

I dialed Joanne, using her personal number so I wouldn’t have to wait for her to be found at her office.

“What?” she answered. Caller ID, she knew it was me.

“Dudley reappeared. We just did a car chase through the Bywater that ended with him running into the guardrail on the St. Claude bridge.”

“What?” she repeated, in a very different tone.

I slowed down and repeated the story, filling in the details.

“Was anyone hurt?” she asked when I finished.

“Not that I know of. He was firing wild. But I can’t be sure. All I saw was some car damage.”

I gave her my route, all the streets I’d taken so that someone could retrace them and make sure no one was injured.

“Are you okay?” she asked.

Finally, the important stuff.

“Shaken. I might have to remove a brown stain from my car seat. But okay. A bullet zinged across my car roof. That’s it.”

“Stay on the line,” she told me. “I need to warn the responders that he’s armed and dangerous.”

Then her voice became distant, indistinct. I couldn’t make out the words. But I wasn’t even trying, I was shaking so hard.

I didn’t even want to count the number of ways I could have been killed in the last… I looked at my watch. Less than forty-five minutes ago I had dropped off Cordelia at our house. The whole chase had taken ten, at most fifteen minutes. The ways I could have been killed in the last ten minutes. That I was safe and whole, maybe a minor scrape on my car, seemed an unlikely miracle.

I took a deep breath, then another one, reassured by the sound of air coming in and out of my lungs.

Alive. Still alive.

A tinny voice was calling my name.

Joanne had come back on the phone. I put it back to my ear.

“Micky? Micky?” she called.

“Here. Sorry, just trying to…” Remind myself that I was alive.

“Where are you?”

“Uh…I’m not sure. One of those little streets that run into the canal.”

“I’ve got a map.” Using her map we located me on North Rampart Street between Kentucky and Poland. Whoever named these streets either had a shaky grasp of geography or a strong sense of irony.

Joanne stayed on the phone with me until the patrol car arrived.

I’m not sure what I said to her and I’m not sure I want to know. Now I had time to think of how close I’d come to being killed. I even discreetly checked the seat for a brown spot.

When the cops arrived they took pictures of my car, especially the bullet scrape on the roof. I agreed to a breath test. I didn’t think I could be much more stone-cold sober than I was at the moment.

Then they took me to the police station. They didn’t even ask if I wanted to drive. One of them took the keys out of my still-shaking hand and the other led me to the patrol car. I most assuredly did not want to be behind the wheel of a car for at least a year.

At the police station I again repeated my story, which was backed up by my earlier complaint about Dudley. Then I wrote out and signed a statement. Finally enough time passed, enough people questioned me, and my hands stopping shaking enough that I was able to go.

Joanne caught up with me just as I was leaving.

“Lunch?” she said, her question not really a question.

“Food? My stomach might still be in my throat.” But I followed her.

We went—in her car—to a decent pizza place that wasn’t too far away. Cheese and dough is comfort food.

Once we were seated and had ordered, she said, “Dudley got banged up pretty badly. No, I don’t expect you to waste any tears over him. He was stupid and dangerous and at least, so far as we know, he hurt himself more than anyone else. Good news for the responders, he was out by the time they got there, so they weren’t at risk.”

“Any chance to question him?”

“No, last I heard he was in surgery and he’s not likely to be in any condition to talk for a day or two—should he be that lucky. Everything on your end checks out. There was a gun in his truck, spent cartridges. Guess he thought he’d be able to clean up later.”

“I’m not sure he was thinking. I doubt he expected to see me that early, and when he did he went into both fight and flight. If he’d been thinking clearly he would be in Houston by now.”

“Do you suspect it was Prejean?”

“Flip a coin. Was he doing it for his ego or for Prejean? When I talked to him—”

“You talked to him?” Joanne cut in.

While I didn’t want her to know I’d run off half-cocked, she needed to know everything—even if it made me look stupid. I told her about my encounter with Prejean. She was kind enough not to create for me another body orifice. “I know, but in a way I was trying to reason with him. His case is closed; what’s done can’t be undone. If he leaves me alone, I leave him alone. Maybe a bit of a hothead, but he’s not really a fighter. At least that was my feeling about him.”

“Oddly, mine, too. Money fraud is one thing—and bad enough, but once you cross over into violence, the cops pay a lot more attention. I’d think just from a business perspective, the last thing he’d want was more cops visiting him.”

“So Dudley didn’t like being kicked in the balls by a girl and he decided to freelance?”

Our food arrived. I suddenly realized I was ravenous. The fear and adrenaline of the chase had probably burned off more calories than a heavy aerobic class. Or maybe my taste buds were just so happy that they were still around to taste.

“That’s the problem with addicts like Dudley,” Joanne said as she slid a slice onto her plate. “They don’t live in the same rational world we live in. It could be the pink rat told him to go after you.”

I swallowed. I was already two bites in. “That’s the sure sign of a drug nut. Never listen to the pink rat; he didn’t even make it through mouse school. Turquoise rat, now, that’s the one who knows the lay of the land.”

Joanne shook her head, took a bite, “Dudley won’t be coming after you again, not for a long while. He’s going to be lucky if he walks again.”

“That’s a comfort,” I said between mouthfuls.

“Prejean hangs with scum, but as far as we can tell, it’s more along the lines of check forgers, identity theft, not the violent kind.”

“That warms the cockles of my heart.” I took another slice.

“No link to Dudley, so we’re guessing it’s a one-off, some chance encounter in a bar, as you surmised. That might mean Prejean isn’t into using brute force to settle his problems and he doesn’t have a ready supply of muscle men at his disposal.”

“So you’re saying with Dudley Dude down for the count, I might not have to look over my shoulder at every turn.”

“We’ll talk to Prejean again. Maybe emphasize the message that if anything happens to you, we’re all over him. He doesn’t need a police spotlight on him. We dig enough we’ll find something. Now that his temper has cooled, he might be anxious to avoid Angola.”

She finished her first slice. I was on my third.

“It would be nice if this was over,” I said. “Especially with me in one piece and him in the hospital.”

“I’m glad you’re okay.” She was quiet for a moment. “We lost so much during Katrina. I think if I lose one more damn thing I’ll fall apart.”

No, no, no. Her real concern, voiced too plainly, not hidden behind a smart remark, was too much. I was about to cry or yell. I coughed through a bite, managed to swallow, took a long swig of tea. Then another gulp. “Hey, I’m glad I’m okay, too. Nice that right at the moment my biggest concern is whether my insurance will cover the ding on my roof or not.”

She started to say something but I overrode her. “And whether to have another slice of pizza or not.”

Joanne glanced away, took a drink of water. She looked at me and covered my hand with hers. “I’m glad you’re okay. I thought I might lose you, too.” She took a breath, then continued, “Alex and I had it out last night. I told her she needed to get her shit together or else find one of those social work lesbians who like to solve other people’s problems.”

“Damn. How’d she react?” I slowly chewed, suddenly no longer hungry.

“Cried, even more than usual. Locked herself in the spare room and only stopped crying long enough to tell me to fuck myself and to find some other macho cop to brag at how well I did during Katrina. She was gone when I got up this morning. I don’t know whether she’ll come home or not.”

“Joanne, look, I know it’s hard—”

“I know I’m the asshole here. The girlfriend who couldn’t be perfect and understanding for more than two years. Know why our spare room is in such crap shape? She’s not sure she wants to rebuild our house, or even stay here. So I either do it without her or it doesn’t get done. I can’t keep living my life in her limbo.”

“Have you considered counseling?”

“Please don’t give me any Band-Aid solutions. There’s no time, no money. Or she’ll go if I go because she doesn’t want to be the only one with a problem.”