Six Bad Things (19 page)

In all the skidding and screeching and crashing, the radio has clicked on. I loll on rubber muscles, unable to move. My brain is a flat horizonless plain. I can sense, but not make sense of the siren screaming close by and the red and blue lights fluorescing the dust cloud outside the windows. Closer by, I recognize a voice. Yeah, that’s The Warrior, the late night DJ for 104.1. The Hawk. I loved that station when I was a kid. The siren stops, and through the blue and red haze, a shape starts to emerge. The deputy opens my door and points his gun at me. The Warrior stops talking and a song comes on the radio. Thin Lizzy. “The Boys Are Back in Town.”

THE DEPUTY seems to have been trained well. I mean, sure, maybe he should have ordered me out of the car before he ran over here and opened the door, but other than that I’d say he’s doing a pretty good job for a kid whose most serious calls are probably knife fights at local roadhouse bars.

He takes one look at my limp body and knows not to move me. Thank you. He talks to me, tells me to put my hands on the wheel where he can see them, but my hands seem way too far away to really have anything to do with me, so I just leave them in my lap. He talks some more and I don’t move some more so he keeps the gun pointed at me as he reaches in and pats me down for weapons. I have none because both Danny’s pistol and Wade’s revolver have banged around the inside of the car and are on the floor somewhere. I’m just grateful neither of them hit me in the head. Wait a second. Did one hit me in the head? I concentrate on how my head feels. It feels bad. Maybe one of the guns hit me on the head. Not that I really care. About anything.

Now he circles around to the passenger-side door. It grinds open. He looks in the glove compartment, finds nothing, feels under the seat and comes up with the pistol. He tucks that in his belt, folds the front seat down, and checks out the backseat. When he comes back to me, I can see he now has the revolver as well. Good for him. He asks me again if I can move and takes my immobility as an answer. Now, just for good measure, he tells me
not
to move, that he’s gonna go call for backup and an ambulance, and he disappears into the dust cloud.

The Monte Carlo’s engine ticks. The dust is fading now and I can see an outline of the deputy standing next to his car, watching me while he talks on his radio. My eyelids start to flutter and droop. I force them back open. Concussion. I most certainly have a concussion and need to stay awake. My eyes close. I hear an engine buzz up the road and stop, a couple doors opening and closing. Voices.

—You OK? Need help?

—Just stay up there on the road.

—What?

—Don’t walk in the tracks there.

—I said, do you need help?

—Stay out of the wheel marks!

—What?

—Just get back up on the road.

—Sorry, just trying to help.

—Get out of the tracks and get back up on the road.

—Yeah, sorry. Dude.

And a pop.

And another pop.

And another.

And feet scrunching through the dirt. And hands unbuckling my seat belt and pulling me from the car as a new song comes on the radio. Led Zeppelin: “When the Levee Breaks.” Now this is rock ’n’ roll. But I just can’t stay awake to enjoy it. So I don’t.

—WAKE HIM up.

—Huh?

—Don’t let him sleep.

Someone is shaking me.

—No go.

—Slap him.

SLAP!

—Dude, not so hard, just a little smack.

Smack.

—He’s out, dude.

—Try some water.

My head is tilted. Something is in my mouth, filling it.

—Choke! Cough! Choke!

—On his face, on his face!

—Dude, you come back here and try.

My eyes open.

—No, wait, he’s awake.

I’m on my back. Lights swirl above me. I’m moving. No, I’m on my back inside something that’s moving.

—You OK?

Something dark looms over me. Someone.

—Sid, take the wheel.

The someone disappears. I hear shuffling.

—Got the wheel?

—Yeah.

The moving thing lurches, then straightens out. Someone new looms.

—You OK?

There’s that question. Am I OK? Well, honestly, that’s just a little too deep for me to handle. So I don’t handle it.

—Are you hurt?

That’s much less ambiguous, I can handle that one.

—Yeah.

—Where?

Also an easy one.

—All over.

A little laugh. Wait, do I know that laugh?

—Where ya headed, where do we take you?

Jesus, that’s a mind-bender. I’m headed… home? No, that’s not right. I was already home and that didn’t work out. I close my eyes and see a sunny place next to the ocean. That’s nice. That’s where I want to go.

—OPEN YOUR eyes, dude, got to stay awake.

I open my eyes. Where am I?

—I want to go to the beach.

Whew, that just about took it all out of me. I close my eyes.

—WAKE UP.

Water splashes my face. I open my eyes. I’m moving. Someone is looming. What am I doing? I’m moving. Moving? Oh right, I was going somewhere. It was real important.

—Are we there?

—Where, dude?

Well, how do I know? Oh, wait, I do know!

—Vegas.

—Vegas?

—Are we?

—Is that where?

—Vegas.

Mom and Dad snapshot into my brain, fade, disappear. A Polaroid developed in reverse. I try to sit up.

—Vegas, I have to get to Vegas.

Someone pushes me back down.

—It’s cool, dude, we’re on our way. Sid.

—Yeah?

—Head for Vegas.

I close my eyes. Someone shakes me, but it’s too late, I’m chasing myself down a long dark tunnel, away from all the things I know are waiting to hurt me when I finally wake up.

If I wake up.

—I’M TELLIN’ ya, dude, they ain’t shit without Taylor. We ain’t getting any help.

—Yeah, but.

—No “yeah, but” about it, dude.

—They’re at home.

—They’re choke artists. Everyone knows you never take the Dolphins in December.

My mouth is gunky and my throat is a dry rasp, but I still manage to get in my two cents.

—He’s right.

Silence.

—Was that him?

—Get some water.

Footsteps. Water running. Footsteps.

Water splashes my face. It feels good.

—You in there, dude?

More water. I open my eyes, see someone I know.

—Hey, Rolf.

—How you feeling, dude?

He’s sitting on the edge of the bed I’m lying on. I turn my head to look at the room. My eyes aren’t focused yet, but I don’t really need them. Motel. Cheap. Anywhere. I turn back to Rolf.

—Let me have some of that water.

The blurry guy behind him hands him a plastic cup and Rolf holds it to my lips and I guzzle it down.

—More.

Rolf gives the cup back to the blurry guy and he leaves and I hear water running in a sink.

—Where are we?

—The Downtown Motel.

—Where?

—The Downtown Motel.

—
Where?

—Oh, Barstow.

Barstow. Have I ever heard anything positive about Barstow? No. Just a town in the desert that sounds like a good place to dump a dead body. The blurry guy comes back with more water. He comes into focus as I drink it. Younger than me and Rolf. A short, bleached Mohawk; a bare torso of lean, flat muscle; a small, blue Ocean Pacific logo tattooed over his left breast, just where it would be if he was wearing one of their shirts.

I pass the empty cup back.

—Thanks.

He takes the cup, grinning.

—No prob, dude.

Rolf points at him.

—This is Sid. Sid, this is my friend, Henry Thompson.

—Cool, right, I know. Cool to meet you, dude.

He sticks out his hand. I manage to lift mine off the bed and shake. Rolf reaches in his pocket, takes out some money, and hands it to Sid.

—Why don’t you run over to the IHOP and grab a grilled cheese for Henry? I’ll take a chef salad.

—Cool.

He backs away, eyes locked on me, then turns suddenly, unlocks the door, and dashes out. Rolf smiles at me.

—I think he has a crush on you.

I try to push myself up in the bed and get hit with a sack of cramps and aches. Rolf helps to get me sitting and puts an extra pillow behind my back.

—So, Rolf?

—Yeah.

—Funny seeing you here.

—Yeah.

—What’s it about?

He digs in the back pocket of his shorts, pulls out a piece of paper, unfolds it, and hands it to me.

—It’s about this.

I take the paper. It’s a photocopy of my NYPD wanted poster, the Spanish language version. It has blood on it.

CANDITO HAD the wanted poster in his pocket. Rolf found it when he was looking for the Bronco keys so he could meet me and Leo back at the highway. But he had to kill Candito first.

—Dude, was that nasty. I was thinking bushwhack: get back in the tequilaria and hide behind the bar and blast him when he came back in. No go. You took off and I went in and he was just coming in through the back door with the town medico. Old guy, fat, with a big old mostacho. The real deal, right out of a Sergio Leone flick. I come through the door and the Federale goes for his gun and I raise my hands and start babbling about how I dropped the car keys and I just need to get them and I’ll be gone and, dude, just be cool. He tells the doc to get to work on the other cop, the one without a face, right?

I’m sitting on the side of the bed now, drinking more water. My head feels like it’s been cut off and stuck on a pike. I keep having little moments where I suddenly get dizzy and my vision blurs. It’s a safe bet that I have a mid-level concussion. Which would explain why I don’t remember much after I got in the Monte Carlo. A chase. A crash. A cop. The back of Rolf’s bus. This room.

—The Federale covers me while I walk over to that table I was hiding behind. I point at the floor and go all,
Hey, there’s my keys,
and I duck down like I’m grabbing my keys just as the doc walks around the bar and sees the dead cop.

Dead cop. A deputy was calling for help on his radio, and then I heard gunshots, and then Rolf and Sid were pulling me out of my car. Dead cop.

—So now the doc is telling the Federale that he can’t do anything for his friend and the Federale is all, Que? Que? Que? So that’s it, the jig’s up. I pop up to do one of those gangsta moves with the dead cop’s piece in one hand and my revolver in the other and, dude, there’s the doc and the Federale standing over the dead guy, I’m totally forgotten. I pull the trigger on that cheap cop gun and it goes off and jams right away. So now, dude, the live cop is drawing a bead on me and I got just three round in
my
piece and the one shot I got off hit the doc in the gut and he’s lying on his side on the floor scooting around in a circle like one of the Three Stooges with a hot rivet in his pants. No shit.

My head spins some more and I lie back with my knees bent over the edge of the bed, feet on the floor.

—You OK, dude?

I keep my eyes closed and wave my hand.

—You sure?

I breathe deeply a few times.

—Yeah.

—OK. So, the Federale is bringing up his piece and I have this moment where I blank. I, seriously, I panic. It’s like surfing. I’m all over a wave and then it just surges and becomes like something else, like a beast, and I realize I’m totally in over my head and I’m just gonna get wiped out if I don’t hold my shit, but it’s too late, just taking the time to think makes it too late and next thing I know I’m plowed because what’s happened is, I’ve totally panicked. Choked in the clutch. And that’s what I did. The Federale is taking aim and I got my gun up and ready, and I freeze ’cause I don’t know if I should blast my three bullets and, if I miss, hope he misses so I’ll have time to duck and un-jam the cop piece, or duck without shooting before he has me in his sights, and by then it’s too late to do anything, dude, ’cause he’s pulling the trigger and I’m gonna get plowed. And then the doc freaking out on the floor kicks him in the back of the leg and he falls down and I shoot him.

I open my eyes. Nope, the world is still blurry and out of focus.

—Dude, it was one of those freaky moments where everything just works out for you. He’s still alive, so I have to put another one in him before I come out from cover, but then that’s it. All over.

All over.

—What about the doctor?

—Oh, dude, bummer. That was fucked up, but the way it worked out for me, I kind of figure it was meant to happen. I mean, I wanted to thank the guy and all, but there he is, gutshot. I got him flipped over and shot him in the back of the head. Total drag. So, then I go looking for the Bronco keys and find the wanted poster, and you know what’s really weird, dude?

—No.

—Like a year ago, I saw the Henry Thompson
America’s Most Wanted.

There it is again.

—And I totally thought he looked like you, but it just seems too far-fetched, right? So that was that. But the second I looked at the poster?
Bang!
Just like that I got it. Then I motored out to the highway and found Leo, and you were gone. That sealed the deal.

—How is Leo?

—OK, last I saw. I took him back to Pedro’s and he was awake and could talk a little. Said the Federales caught him in the jungle and beat it out of him about where I was taking you. He felt real bad about that. Anyway, Pedro called Doc Sanchez and I took off. Looked like a good time to return to the States for a vacation. Also, I wanted to look you up.

—Why?

Not that I need to ask.

—Dude, way I figure it, I’m owed some money. Leo may be one of those cats who will do anything for a friend. But me? I like to get paid. And there is no fucking way that if I’d known who you were I would have helped out for the standard fee. I mean, if I’d known I was gonna have to kill three guys, I probably would have said, like, double. But now? Shit. Way I figure, I know you have money ’cause you gave the Federales 70 Gs and they thought you should have more.