Simple Intent (25 page)

JR shuffled off, shaking his head.

White Shoes grabbed the nozzle, squeezed. The pump cut off, and when he squeezed again, a spray of gasoline covered his hand and splattered his shoes.

JR laughed as he walked toward the store. “I told you,” he said.

The kid behind the counter had rigged the store’s security monitor to a game player and was in the middle of a battle with three tough looking Ninjas, thumbs pounding furiously on the controller. 

He didn’t look up. “Whatcha got, Dude?”

“Twenty in gas, some chips and candy.” 

The kid swapped out his Warrior for a Japanese fighting girl in a slinky red dress. He glanced at the food on the counter then back to his game. “Twenty-seven fifty. You need change?”

JR pulled some bills from his wallet and a few coins from his pocket, slapped the money on the counter. He spoke to the kid’s back. “Nah, I’m good.” 

The boy’s fighting girl took on a giant panda. The kid jumped up, jerking his arms and legs as if the battle were real. He never saw JR swipe the six-pack and magazines on his way out. JR dumped his take into the van through the window. White Shoes rubbed furiously at a damp spot on his Bucs. 

“You all right there, Shoes?”

“Yeah, yeah. Just get the kid and let’s go.” 

JR walked to the back of the van. Reilly was gone. He checked inside. No kid. He closed the rear doors and looked toward the restrooms.

“Hey, White Shoes?”

“Yeah?”

“Did you say he was, uh, in the toilet?”

“No.”

“Oh.”

White Shoes threw down the paper towel and came around to the back of the van. 

“He ain’t here.”

“I can see that. Where is he?”

JR shrugged. Across the gravel lot, someone had opened a window in the bar, and now it was even easier to hear Creedence singing about a bad moon on the rise.

“Are you shittin’ me? C’mon.”

The moment they opened the door they knew they were fucked. 

It wasn’t the twinkling pink Christmas lights around the bar or even the rows of collectible Barbies neatly displayed on the back wall. It was the way the song ended abruptly when they stepped over the threshold. The way three bushy blond heads swiveled round from their places at the bar.

“Well, girls,” The bigger blonde said. “This must be our day.” She slid from the bar stool, heavy boots clomped on the wooden floor, and spoke around the cigarette in her mouth, swaying a bit. 

She pointed at White Shoes. “One,” then to JR, “two,” then reached between her pals and produced Reilly, like a rabbit from a magician’s hat. “Three.”

The second blond popped up, tittering. “And look, there’s three of us. “One. Two—”

The third blond grabbed her by the hair, shoved her. “No shit, Shirley. Sit down.”

“What did you do that for, huh? And why’d you call me Shirley?”

“Have a drink.” The tough one said, shoving a glass in her direction.

The big blond approached the men and circled them with her hands on her hips like a farmer appraising his prize-winning bull. She licked her lips. “Good idea. Let’s all have a drink.”

JR started backing up, “Thanks ladies, but we really should be going.”

White Shoes put his hand on JR’s back. “We’d love a drink. Ain’t that right, buddy?” He pushed JR forward. “And then the three of us need to be hitting the road, ain’t that right?’ White Shoes stared at Reilly, who tipped his drink and saluted.

The big blonde stepped behind the bar and spoke to them over her shoulder. “Name’s Barbie. That’s Stacy.” The flaky chick on the nearest stool wiggled her fingers. “And Kenita.”

The tough broad jerked her head in their direction. “Ken.”

Barbie held two chilled shot glasses. “Vodka, boys?”

JR and White Shoes snapped the shots back, then set the glasses on the pastel pink bar.

JR looked around. “Nice place. It’s what you call...whimsical.” White Shoes rolled his eyes.

Stacy’s empty glass was re-filled by Barbie, sugar-rimmed and full of chilled vodka. Stacy took a sip then dipped her finger into the sugar and licked it off. She looked at JR. “Know which one’s my favorite?”

He shook his head slowly, unsure what she meant but hoping it had something to do with that sugar-tipped finger. She slid from the barstool and sashayed across the room in a sexy dance to the music in her head. Stacy looked like a life-sized version of the dolls on the wall. She selected a Barbie on the lowest shelf then hid it behind her back and returned to the bar. 

“Wanna see?”

JR swallowed. Hell yeah. 

“It’s Malibu Barbie.” She held the doll out to JR. “Feel her hair.” He petted the fake hair. 

“And look.” Stacy lifted the doll’s skirt. When JR wasn’t sure what he was seeing, she pulled at the velcro straps and revealed Malibu Barbie’s bra and crotch-less panties. Not exactly the kind of outfit you’d find on the toy store shelf.

“Now, that’s my kinda doll.” 

Reilly said, “One more for my friends.” 

Barbie filled the men’s glasses, leaned way over when she gave the drink to White Shoes. “I love a man in Bucs, buck-naked.” She winked, held up her glass to clink his. They downed the shot, eyes locked.

Reilly couldn’t believe this. Here he was out in the boonies with a couple of mobsters, both of them looking for the same guy, for what he figured were very different reasons. 

He’d lucked out, sneaking in here to use the phone while the bozos were busy. Sailor hadn’t believed him at first, then Ken got on the phone and there weren’t any more questions, except, “How long can you stall them?’ 

The ladies were pretty sweet, once you got past the, I’ve-been-hurt-by-my-asshole-of-a-husband-and-the-world-in-general-so-don’t-fuck-with-me facade. Yeah, after that, they were really pretty cool. 

So when he told them that these guys had taken him on a trip he hadn’t packed for, if you get my meaning. they understood completely and told him not to worry. They could handle these city boys. 

Reilly had to admit he sort of liked the show they were putting on, and from the way JR was dancing with Stacy, he was enjoying it, too. It was the other guy, White Shoes, who worried him. Not the footwear so much, but what he had strapped to the ankle above the Bucs. And the guy had no patience. Bad combination. 

But Reilly figured you have to work with what you got and these are the cards he was dealt. He was just hoping that Sailor had a few deuces up her sleeve. He threw back his shot of water and slurred, “Who’s going to dance with me?

“Come on, Hi. We’re almost there.” 

Gina figured there was no use in telling him the truth. They were so far from almost there, it wasn’t funny. But she was hoping against all hope that somebody would drive down this forsaken road and save her from thinking about the alternatives. So she hitched up her grip on Berger and repeated, “Come on, Hi.” Like it was a prayer.

SAILOR told Banning, “It’s going to be fine. Jeremy’s great. Really.”

She wasn’t sure who she was trying to convince. After receiving Reilly’s rushed phone call from the bar, she called Banning. When he said they should go up there alone, no cops, it had been Sailor’s idea to bring Jeremy in. But Banning knew him better and there was something he wasn’t saying. 

Banning slowed the Jag. “You sure you know where we’re going?” 

“With these directions,” she waved a piece of paper, “I could find it in the dark.”

“You’re going to have to.” He looked at the sky. “How about in the rain?’ 

Sailor had seen the approaching clouds and hoped they’d out-run the storm.

They pulled up in front of a dilapidated brick warehouse. A graffiti artist had spray-painted a large red tongue on the wall over the door with drops of saliva dripping toward the sidewalk. Jeremy appeared under the tongue dressed in camouflage. He looked like a renegade action figure. 

When he tossed two heavy bags into the backseat of the car and slid in, Sailor didn’t want to know what was in them, or what he had been doing in that ramshackle building. All she wanted to know was that he was on their side.

“Okay, enough.” White Shoes pulled away from Barbie’s grip and called to JR on the dance floor. “Don’t get too involved Romeo, we’re leaving.”

Stacy whined over JR’s shoulder, “You party pooper.” She pressed herself into JR and ran her tongue into JR’s ear.

White Shoes grimaced. 

“Here.” The tough blonde, Ken, held the vodka. “One for the road.”

He hesitated. What the fuck was he doing here? He was supposed to be finding Berger, not watching JR dry-hump some backwoods slut in a Barbie bar. Christ! He needed a new life. If he ever got this job done for Gallo, that would be it. 

“Hold it right there!”

“What the fuck?” White Shoes spun around. 

A cop stood in the doorway. At least he thought it was a cop. The halogen lights had come on outside. They cast an orange shadowy halo around the guy who was short—midget short—and holding something really long. From the looks of it, it was pretty damn heavy.

Instinctively, everyone raised his hands, even the girls. White Shoes took a step.

“I said, hold it right there.” 

White Shoes stopped, patted the air in an easy-there-boy way, and put on his biggest smile.

Stacy pulled her head out of JR’s armpit and squinted. “Duane? Is that you? What the hell are you doing?” 

She crossed the room, rumpled and swaying. “Does Melinda know you’ve got that thing?” She snatched the long-barreled revolver from the tiny cop’s hand then walked over to the bar and laid it next to the vodka. 

Her lips were moving, but no sound came out as she made herself a drink, booze sloshing out of the glass and onto the gun. Reilly thought it looked too big to be real, like a prop for a Clint Eastwood movie.

Barbie put her hands down and said, “I’ve got to pee.” 

The men watched her departing ass and were caught looking when she turned around at the restroom door.

“Close the door, Duane,” Stacy said. “You’re letting the bugs in.” 

Duane stepped inside, closed the door behind him then glanced in the direction of the restroom, then back at his gun on the bar.

White Shoes returned to his stool, figured he’d play this one out. “Buy you a drink, Officer? A soda, or something?”

The cop shifted his weight from foot to foot, took another look toward the back, then said, “I need to talk to the owner of the white van.” 

When no one answered, he jerked his thumb over his shoulder, hitched his pants up and sniffed. “The white van, at the pump? There seems to have been some misunderstanding with the bill.” 

He flipped open his notebook and read, “I told the guy it was twenty-seven fifty. He gave me six dollars and fifteen cents.” Duane looked at White Shoes. “Is that right?”

White Shoes shot JR a look. JR shoved his hands into his pockets and seemed real interested in Geisha Barbie and her sushi tray. 

White Shoes shook his head. “Sorry about that, Officer. Here.” He reached for his wallet. Let me fix that.”

The cop held his hand up. “Easy there, just keep your hands where I can see them.”

White Shoes chuckled, “What? How am I going to pay our bill, if I don’t put my hand in my pocket?”

The cop squeezed up his face and went back to shifting his weight from foot to foot.

“Well...”

“Jesus-fucking-Christ, Duane.” Ken stood up, reached into White Shoe’s pockets and pulled out car keys and a wallet. She snatched a twenty and a one, slapped the keys and wallet on the bar then reached over and grabbed the gun with her other hand. She stomped toward the door where Duane stood.

The gun was slippery with vodka and when Ken tried to change her grip on the barrel to hand Duane the money she dropped the gun. It went off just as Barbie exited the bathroom drying her hands on a paper towel. The bullet caught her right above the pubic bone and exited clean under her rib cage, spraying blood on School Teacher Barbie and Surfer Ken. 

JR spun round, suddenly sober. “What the fuck?’ He looked down at Barbie, bleeding and moaning on the dance floor and said it again with an echo from Reilly at the bar, “What the fuck?” 

Their ears were ringing as a cop burst through the back door, dropped to the floor and rolled, yelling and firing wild shots that sent everyone running. 

Duane, crouched by the jukebox with a hand over his head yelled, “Marks! Cease firing! Cease firing!” 

One of the stray bullets hit the jukebox making a selection and a volume adjustment. Metallica blared—all wailing guitars and angst. 

Stacy screamed from behind the bar, “I don’t wanna die! I don’t wanna die!” over and over again. 

JR yelled something in English about his Mama and that he was sorry, then switched to Italian and half-remembered prayers. 

The shooting stopped. Stacy was still screaming. It was sweet music compared to the warped blare of Metallica. Reilly figured this was as good a time as any. He patted the bar top, found White Shoes’ keys, made a run for the stockroom and the rear door that the gun-happy cop had crashed through.