They Tell Me I'm The Bad Guy (11 page)

His eyes darted, looking to see if anybody had taken notice of us. "Ijustneeda . . . I just. Need. A. Place. To. Restaminute. Okay? Youcan helpaguylikeme out, right?" His eyes looked into me as he smiled with bared teeth. "Comeon, man. A favorfromold school to newschool." He raised his voice, "Youdon'twantyour neighbors
knowingwho'sliving here,right,Biest
?"

Nobody was outside, nobody watching. And I didn't hear any sirens like someone was after the kid.

"You got five minutes," I told him. "Then you're gone, and you don't give my name to any-fucking-body."

He nodded. "Yeahman,yeahman,that'scool."

And I let a fucking speeder into my home. He stank like buckets of sweat. And the little motherfucker sat his smelly ass down right on my damn couch.

"Shit, thatA/Cfeelsgood," he said, laying his head back and shutting his eyes. His chest vibrated like a hummingbird's.

"You running from somebody?" I asked him. "Am I gonna have cops coming here?"

He laughed. "Shiiit.Yougotnoidea,man.ButI'm wayahead of 'em. Noworries." Inside, away from anyone else that might see him, he started moving his natural, disorienting speed. Trying to keep up with a guy who was so fast he blurred half the time nearly made me nauseous. Every five seconds he had his keyboard phone out checking his e-mail, surfing the internet, looking out my window, flipping through my DVDs, shifting in his seat. I couldn't even keep watching him because it hurt my eyes. He actually caused a draft in my living room.

"Ibeenrunnin'allday. Startedin Mexico, crazyshitdown there, told'emI'dcome checkyouout. Fedspoppeduponme inArizona thisafternoon."

"Feds?" That was the only damn word I could pick out of all of that.
"DEA,youknow. Hey,canIborrow somewater?"

"Sure." I went into the kitchen and filled a glass from the faucet. DEA. Perfect.

"I can run adozenkilos atatime across theborder. Dothat forty or fifty timesanight, andIcan transport alotofstuff. Nopaperwork,novehicles, I'ma one-man operation and nobody can trackmeatthespeedsI go."

He snatched the glass of water out of my hand and chugged the whole thing down, elbowed past me and drank three more full glasses of water before he checked his e-mail again. Then he dropped the glass in my sink and cracked the damn thing.

Next he showed off the prison tattoo on his left
shoulder blade
. Speedy Gonzalez giving the finger with a blue
13
above it and the letters
BP
below. Classy. He had another one across his back in Old English print, flanked by curved spikes:
W.C.S.C. RIFA
.

"West Coast Supervillain Crew," he said. "That'swhoIrollwith."

Jesus fucking Christ, kids had gotten stupid.

"Yeah, meandRoryand someotherguys. Werollthewestcoast,mostlyCali. Andwe'regettingtogetheran EastCoast crew, too. Nationwidelike a motherfucker,man. Youinterested? Wecouldmake you a,uh,satindisciple,y'know, whenwe pull everybodyalliedwith LaGranRaza over there. We'll takethatshitover in notime."

I glanced at the brick pattern tattooed on his left shoulder and
FC
on his right. He had done time.

He noticed me checking them out and lifted the front of his shirt. Below the
ESCO
over his heart, a bleeding cross with a blue
187
on it was tattooed on his stomach, surrounded by a couple dozen blue flowers.

"A flower for everybitch-assmotherfucker's funeral," he said, pulling the sweat-stained wife beater back down. "Yougotanytats?"

"Never got into--"

"--Yeah,Ifeelyou,Ifeelyou.SoyoujustdothatB&E," he must have caught himself talking too fast because he slowed back down, "--stuff, huh?"

"I'm sorry, what?"

"You just. Do. B and E now?"

"No, I'm legit. I'm not in that anymore."

"Toolegit,toolegit to quit, right?" God, the kid cracked himself up. He tapped his chest. "They callme Run ALC,
Biest
. AngeloLuisCabrera. Hey,you mindifI takea shit?"

"Yeah, fine. Go ahead."

"Thanks, mybrotha."

He tore ass into my bathroom. I fell into my recliner and just stared at the ceiling. Fuck, I did not need this shit. Another piss ant kid trying to hit me up as a connection. And it wasn't gonna stop. Once my name was out there, man, this kid was just the beginning. Or Rory was the beginning or whatever. I would have to pack up and move to get away from it; change my name down at the courthouse, maybe. I was
not
getting back into this. Little fucking bastards. And fuck Tracey for giving them my name.

The kid, Run ALC, came out of my bathroom smoking a blunt. "Want ahit?Weedswiththatcocaine kick. Hey,yougotanything to drink?" He threw open all my cabinets before I could tell him the whiskey was above the fridge. "Justthis Jackstuff, man? That'sallyougot?"

"Yeah. That's it."

He drank the whole damn bottle and hit the couch,
hot boxed
his roach, then pulled out another and lit it. "Man,I'm hungryas fuck. Shit. Allthatrunnin',man."

I started pumping out enough heat to be uncomfortable to get him to leave. "There's a Wendy's on the corner. They're still open."

"Youtryin'togetridofme?" he winked and yelled, "Run,motherfucker," at the point guard on TV taking his time getting across the court. "Hey,youseen Rory in thepastfew days? Vatto doesn'tanswer his cell."

Shit. "Haven't seen him since Missouri."

"Howwasthat? Yougotin forit?”

"What?"

He rolled his eyes. "Fuck . . . You. Got. In. For. It? Didyouget it thattime?"

"Yeah, I don't know if--"

"Damn,youjustgotbitched," he said at the TV. He sucked down his joint, throwing sparks on my couch that he slapped out with his hand. "Startin' to feelit now,man. Hey,thatchick downat 1410, shegot a boyfriendorhusband oranything?Shefuckin'
fine
."

"You gotta fucking slow down if you want me to understand what the fuck you're saying. Are you talking about apartment 1410?"

"Yeah, thatblonde withthem titties.Didn'tseeherface,but thatassstoppedmy world. Youtappedthatyet?"

"She's got a husband," I lied, turning up the heat. "Guy's like a bouncer or something, You don't wanna fuck with him."

Run ALC nodded with a smile. "Soheworks nights,though. Allright,allright."

"She's also got a security system--"

"Inanapartment? Bullshit,man."

"--that'll kill anybody who tries to bust in her place with a fucking fireball up their ass."

He stopped twitching, and I could finally lock eyes with the little s.o.b.

"What?" was all he said.

I leaned forward in my recliner and cranked up so much heat it made the fridge, the freezer and the A/C kick on and browned the paper towels in the kitchen. "Get the
fuck
outta here. You touch that girl, and I'll--"

A hurricane stepped up to me in the blink of an eye. He even stopped checking his e-mail. "Thefuckyousay, bitch?"

I gave him a long pause to annoy his impatient ass and put raw heat into his wind-burned face while I stood up to look down on him. "I said it takes no time at all to pop a blood vessel in your goddamn brain, you fucking piece'a shit. Get. The fuck. Out."

What felt like a loooong-ass silence followed before Run ALC finally said in a way-too-fucking calm voice, "Ifeel you,but,man,I'mheaded up through Canada backtoCali,I needasmuch cashasyoucanspare.I gotyouraddress. I'llpayyouback." His eyes watched me like a wild dog, just waiting for me to say no. Even standing there, he flickered so fast I could hear the static electricity popping off him.

"You want money?" I said because I couldn't
think of anything else.

"Ifyoudon't mind,yeah." The kid's fists were clenched, ready to explode.

I yielded. I didn't need another Wilmont Avenue or another fucking Kamikaze. "I got some money in the bedroom," I told him. "You can have it and get out."

He followed me back there, and I handed over the rest of the cash I had from my plane ticket downgrade. I tried like hell to keep my hand from shaking while I gave it to him. I hoped to God he would just fucking take it and leave. Because there was only one way left for this to escalate,
and only one result if it did.

"Damn, player,yougenerous," he said without any trace of gratitude. He put his hand up to clasp mine. I ignored it. "Comeon,man,don't be likethat," he insisted, vibrating the hand to get me to grab it.

I grabbed his fucking hand and shook it.

"Mybrotha," he said with empty, hollow eyes. "Hey,Imayneed to buysomefavors on myway. YoumindifI get somecardsfromyou,too?"

"You want my fucking credit cards, too?"

With that, Run ALC decided he was bored
with me.

In a heartbeat, he was gone out of the bedroom and back, tearing the carpet and breaking the doorframe where he grabbed it to slow himself down. And in that heartbeat, I had a ch
rome-plated gun put in my face.

The kid who could probably move the speed of sound pulled a gun on me.
Jesus
, kids had gotten stupid.

He cracked the pistol upside my head and sent me halfway across the room with stars in my eyes. He whipped the credit cards and my bank card from my wallet and pressed the chrome barrel to my head. The buckets of sweat all over him m
ixed with the smell of gun oil.

"What'sthefuckin'PIN,bitch? Huh?Yougonnatellme whatIcanandcan'tdo? Fuckyou, man! Fuckyou! Hurryup'cause I gota datewiththat blondebitchin 1410, baby."

I could have heated up the gun's grip, but the kid was so fast he would be able to feel it and pull the trigger before it was hot enough to drop. Same thing with burning his skin or clothes. But the two seconds I didn't say anything must have been an eternity to him because he kicked me in the side three times the following second.

He tore ass out of the room. My hand had almost finished wiping the blood off my temple when he appeared back in the doorway.

"
Hurryupwhat'sthefuckin'PINforthecard?What'sthefuckin'PIN,puto?Thefuckin'PIN!Gimmethefuckin'PIN
," he screeched at such a high speed I didn't understand the words.

My head rang, but I concentrated hard as I spat out my PIN code to him and cranked up two pockets of heat; one of them a thousand-degree wall between me and him to keep him off me.

"Now get the fuck out,"
I said, dizzy from the effort.

Run ALC disappeared with a rapid "fuck you," and a split-second later, I heard the sounds I was waiting for: a gurgled yell and a crash so hard it rattled shit on my dresser. Then a spurting h
iss like a garden hose.

I sat on the floor, head in my hands. I had a stabbing pain in my ribs where he had kicked me. I sat there for a long time, knowing what waited for me in the other room. I was in no rush to
actually see it.

"Gonna
have to move out," I muttered.

I picked myself up off the floor, stopped the bleeding on my temple with a damp rag from the bathroom, then made my way to the living room, prepping myself for what was waiting for me there, where I had put the second pocket of high heat.

The frame of my apartment door had been crushed and the door itself cracked nearly in half. A spray of red blood bathed my walls started from a point a few steps before that, but there had been plenty red left there on the frame where Run ALC's head hit the studs and caved in. With his speeder heart rate, he had bled out in no time. All over my fucking apartment.

I had used the only thing I had to trip him up: a line of invisible heat hot enough to ignite and burn through human flesh on contact. Right at his neck height. It had seared halfway through his neck and staggered him, and he slammed skull-first into the door frame.

The motherfucker was dead on my floor with every ounce of his
blood painting my living room.

The first thing I thought was that the girl in 1410 would never know how fucking lucky she was. Other than that, it was like everything else had turned off with the shock, every feeling. I pulled my recliner out of the pool of blood, wiped it down with a dishtowel that I burned in the sink and sat down to chain smoke and think. I turned off the basketball game. Nothing s
eemed real, though. None of it.

And fin
ally, a flash hit me as to why.

It fucking wasn't.

Rory's psychic was fucking with me. Tracey was paying her to screw with me for mouthing off, to teach me a lesson. Fuck, and I had fallen for it. I stared at the body. It wasn't real, I could tell. Hell, it still looked kind of like it was breathing. So I just stared it for a while, waiting for the psychic to get bored with me and thinking at her every obscenity I could come up with because I knew she was in my fucking head, until the next thing I knew, I woke up with a nosebleed. Standing
up. Wearing my fireproof suit.

On the coffee table beside me, my cell phone showed the
simple message: 'Picture Sent.'