Six Bad Things (13 page)

—Some tapes in the glove box, you can have ’em.

—OK.

Cassidy scrambles into the backseat, Leslie gets in front and looks over her shoulder.

—Put on your belt, honey.

Cassidy sighs loudly but buckles up and we do the same. I start the BMW and pull into the street. At the first stop sign I tread lightly on the brake pedal and roll halfway through the intersection before we stop. I pull us the rest of the way across and look at Leslie.

—Told you they needed fluid.

—No kidding.

—You want your money back?

—No. Which way?

She directs me through several blocks of run-down suburbia, brown lawns, peeling paint, overgrown tree roots pushing up slabs of sidewalk, until we pull into the driveway of another stucco job, this one with a rusted and empty boat trailer in the side yard. Leslie opens her door and sticks one foot out.

—Look, will ya do me a favor?

—Depends.

—I know I said I just needed a ride here, but will you wait a second in case he’s not home and we need a ride to the bus stop? I would of called him, but the phone, ya know, like the cable.

Killing me, she’s killing me.

—Just be fast, OK?

She nods sharply, gets out, and helps Cassidy from the backseat. I turn off the car and watch as they go up the walk. The front door opens before they can knock. A guy in his twenties, wearing sweatpants and a concert T with the sleeves ripped off, comes out. He sees me in the car and points.

—Who the fuck is that?

Oh no.

Leslie looks at me.

—That’s the guy I just sold your fucking car to, you asshole.

Oh fucking no.

—See, fucker, I told you. I told you, pay your fucking support or I’d sell the fucking thing.

No more kindness to strangers. No more kindness to strangers. No more kindness to strangers.

Cassidy’s dad sticks his finger in Leslie’s face.

—You did not, you fucking bitch.

—Yes I did, I did.

She points at me.

—Go ask him. Go see, he has the fucking pink slip, you deadbeat piece of shit.

Cassidy walks past them and into the house with a shrug of her shoulders.
Been there, done that.

The guy starts heading for me.

—You, cocksucker, get out of my fucking car.

Why do I keep landing in this shit? I mean, is shit just attracted to this fly or what? No matter. This particular shit is easy to get out of.

I start the car, drop it in reverse, zip out of the drive, and head back down the street the way we came in. Except, of course, I turn the wrong way out of the driveway and go straight into a cul-de-sac. Now I have to turn around and drive back past Cassidy’s dad, who is standing in the middle of the street with a ball-peen hammer in his hand. Where the fuck did he get that?

I try to steer around him to the left, and he steps in front of the car; to the right, and he’s there again. I think about just hitting the gas and going over him, but stop the car instead. He stands in front of the hood, hammer dangling at his side.

—I said out of the car.

Leslie has walked down to the bottom of the driveway.

—Stop being a dick, Danny. I sold him the car. You want to yell at someone, yell at me.

He keeps his eyes on me, but raises the hammer and points it in her direction.

—Get in the fucking house, bitch, I’ll deal with you.

—Oh, fuck off, you’re not my husband. Just ’cause ya knocked me up doesn’t mean you can tell me what to do.

He turns to face her.

—Get in the fucking house before I kick your ass.

She shivers all over like she’s cold.

—Ohhhh, I’m so fucking scared. You lay one fucking hand on me and you know my dad will come over here and kick your ass again.

Danny turns back to me, face boiling red.

—What the fuck are you still doing in my fucking car? I said get the fuck out!

—Leave him alone, Danny.

—SHUUUUUUT UUUUUUP!!!

He walks toward my door, hammer hefted.

He’s smaller than me, but has one of those hard wiry builds. He could be dangerous. What say we play this one cool.

He grabs the door handle, yanks it open.

—Out.

—Easy.

I start to get out of the car. He grabs my hair, pulls me the rest of the way out.

—I said out, fuck.

He kicks me in the ass as he releases my hair and I stumble a couple steps.

Leslie is still on the curb.

—Knock it off, Danny.

He ignores her, focused on me now.

—She telling the truth? You got my pink slip?

—I got the pink slip.

—Let’s have it.

—Look, man, I paid for the car.

—That ain’t my problem. That bitch sold something ain’t hers. You want your money back, talk to her.

Leslie takes a couple steps into the street.

—That’s not fucking true and you know it. The judge gave me that car. It’s mine.

—I. Don’t. Give. A. Fuck. What. The. Judge. Said.

I raise a hand.

—Hey, whatever you guys have going on is.

—Give me my fucking pink slip right fucking now, asshole.

He’s holding the hammer up at shoulder level, cocked and ready to swing.

—Give it to him, Danny.

—Kick his fucking aaaaaaaasss.

—Do it. Do it. Do it.

I look over at the porch of Danny’s house. Three of his friends have come out to watch the party. They’re all about his age, one with a shaved head, one with a ponytail, and one with a greasy mullet. I am now officially being hassled by the assholes who stole everybody’s milk money.

Leslie turns to face them.

—Shut up, you dildos. This is none of your business.

The biggest of the three, or rather, the fattest of the three, he of the shaved head, gives her the finger.

—Fuck off, Leslie.

Danny jerks his head around.

—Hey! What did I fucking say about talking to her like that?

—She’s being a bitch.

—I don’t care what she’s being, she’s my kid’s mom.

Leslie waves her hand toward them, done with the whole scene. She walks toward the car.

—Come on, mister, give me a ride to the bus, he’s a fuckoff.

—Shutthefuckupshutthefuckupshutthefuckup!!!

Enough of this.

—Look, Danny.

He swings the hammer at me.

I MURDERED a man less than a week ago. I saw another man have his face blown literally off. That was… yesterday? One of my friends got beat half to death on account of me. I have four million dollars sitting at another friend’s house in Las Vegas, sitting there waiting to attract killers or cops, whoever smells it first. I’m not sure anymore who may or may not be after me: the Russians, the Mexican police, the FBI, a bunch of fucking treasure hunters like Mickey. Whoever wants me or the money, all of them, can find out where my parents live whenever they want because Mom and Dad stayed put through all the killing, and the reporters, and the cops, stayed right in the house where I grew up. And I’m really, really fucking tired.

I actually hear the sound as I snap.

It sounds good.

Just like a bat hitting a ball.

I step inside Danny’s swing. His forearm hits me in the shoulder and the hammer ends up slamming against my back. I hook him under the ribs, he folds in two. I grab the back of his head and bring my knee up into his face. He turns at the last moment so I don’t break his nose. But I can fix that.

I have his head in the open car door and am ready to slam it on his face when I realize his friends are running into the street. I drop his head, scoop up the hammer from the asphalt, and swing it in a mad arc. They fall back, but stay in a tight group, and I dive at them, shoving the fat guy back into his two skinnier buddies. They stumble, Fat Guy falling on top of Mullet Head, and Ponytail Boy windmilling his arms to keep his balance. I start kicking at the heads of the two on the ground.

—Stop it! Stop it!

I turn, hammer raised. Leslie flinches back. I lower the hammer. Leslie sticks her finger in my face.

—What the fuck are you, some kind of maniac? Ya didn’t have to beat the shit out of ’em, they’re all a bunch of pussies anyway.

The two on the ground are curled into scared little balls, their knees drawn up, hands covering their heads. Ponytail Boy has run off into one of the houses in the cul-de-sac. I throw the hammer into some bushes. Danny is on his ass, leaning against the side of the car, holding his bleeding mouth.

—Danny.

He doesn’t look up. Blood is trickling steadily from his mouth. I think he may have bit through his lip. I squat down in front of him. He looks up at me. His eyes narrow.

—Hey.

His hand comes away from his mouth and he points at me.

—Heeey.

—Get off my car, Danny.

He’s still looking at me, tilting his head, squinting but not moving. I grab his legs and pull. He scoots on his butt to keep from tipping over. I drop his legs and get in the car. Leslie has followed me and squats down next to Danny.

—Stop being a dick to him, can’t ya see he’s hurt?

I close the door and start the car. I can feel a lump growing between my shoulder blades where the hammer tagged me. I shove the stick into first and pull away. In the mirror Danny is still sitting in the street, pointing after me. Leslie has one hand on his head and is giving me the finger with her other one.

I’m almost at the end of the block when a garage door back in the cul-de-sac swings up and Ponytail Boy comes screeching out in a jacked-up black Toyota pickup with monster tires.

Great. Pursuit.

I’VE BEEN lost in these tracts for about ten minutes now and nothing looks familiar. Or rather, everything looks familiar because it all looks exactly the same. Wait a sec. That’s it. That’s the liquor store where I got off the trolley. I stop the car, put it in reverse, and back up to the last intersection. There it is, just up the street. From there I can follow the trolley tracks back toward the I-5.

It only takes a few minutes to reach a major intersection, where I see signs for the highway. I’m almost at the on-ramp when I get a look at the gas gauge. Empty. I pull into the last-chance Shell and kill the engine.

I’ve got about four gallons in the tank when the black Toyota squeals to a stop at the intersection. Danny is in the front, Ponytail Boy behind the wheel, Leslie is squeezed between them, and Fat Guy and Mullet Head are in the back.

A big red Suburban is on the other side of the pumps from me, screening the BMW from the street. I duck down a little so they can’t see me. When the light changes they’ll go right past, and I can sneak out onto the freeway.

Then I see their turn signal flashing.

They’re going to come in here.

The light changes. I pull the hose out, hang it up, and close the tank. Two cars make the turn before the Toyota. I reach into the car and hit the ignition, but stay standing so I can peer through the windows of the Suburban. The Toyota makes the turn and heads for the driveway behind me. I get in the car and ease it forward around the pumps and the Suburban, trying to keep it between me and Danny’s crew as they pull into the station. If I time it right, I’ll pop out on the other side of this behemoth, behind them, and be able to scoot away before they know I’m here.

I pull out from the cover of the Suburban. The Toyota is stopped right next to the driveway. Fat Guy has hopped out of the back and is asking what everybody wants from the store inside. They see me.

I hit the gas and squirt past them into the street. As I bounce over the curb, Fat Guy tries to climb back up on the truck, gets one leg in, and is dragged several yards before the truck stops and he is tossed to the pavement. I hit the intersection just as the light goes yellow and make for the on-ramp. I check the rearview, see the Toyota behind me jump the intersection as the light turns red, see it get snarled in a mess of squealing brakes and curses. I’m on the ramp, merging into traffic and on my way north.

I CAN tune in Westwood One on the old AM/FM in this piece of crap. They’re broadcasting the Oakland vs. Denver game and I’m able to get updates on the Dolphins, which is as good as anything. Or, as it turns out, as bad as anything.

By the time the game ends, Miles Taylor’s backup has stumbled to six yards rushing and three lost fumbles, two of which were taken back for touchdowns. Going into the game, Coach had not been overly concerned about his wounded secondary because Detroit has the worst passing attack in the NFL. He decided to load the line to stop Chester Dallas, their massive Pro Bowl fullback. Detroit focused completely on the air game, where they had three touchdowns and over three hundred yards at the half, while Coach kept eight in the box to stuff the nonexistent running game. DET 48, MIA 9 FINAL. Meanwhile, the Packers have decided this is the day to lose a December game at home for the first time since the Dark Ages, handing the Jets a one-game division lead over Miami. I turn off the radio and concentrate on not dying in this crappy car.

I manage to get it up and over the Grapevine. I gas up at an Exxon, buy a hot dog, a soda, and some Benson & Hedges in the convenience store, and get back on the road. About four more hours and I should be home.

The I-5 is the highway that the Baja 1 aspires to be: long, straight, impeccably maintained, and running through similarly featureless terrain. Endless rolling hills line the valley, all of them dirt brown year-round, except for a few brief moments in late fall and early spring. Orchards and cattle ranches offer an occasional break from the usual scenery, which consists of dead grass. There are the anomalous palm trees, the abandoned farm equipment, and the massive rest stops, but other than that, it’s a long haul with nothing to look at but the other cars and the assortment of Oakland Raiders paraphernalia they sport.

With one hand I twist the cap off my water bottle and take a swig. I try to fiddle the cap back onto the bottle and it drops between my thighs. I feel around for it and my foot comes off the gas a little. The motor home behind me makes a move to pass me. I look down at my lap, find the cap, and put it back on the bottle as the motor home leaves the right lane and starts to slowly pass me on the left. Behind the motor home I see a black car coming on way too fast to stop. The motor home tries to get out of its way by ducking back into my lane. The huge RV veers at me, horn blaring. I push the brake, the motor home creeps farther into my lane. I stick my foot into the brake, the BMW skidding slightly as I try to steer onto the shoulder.