Wanted (11 page)

I linger inside my car until the money is shooting out the machine before I make my move. I dash out, leaving the car door open, and cozy up right behind her. I push the tire iron into her back. “Don't scream or I'll kill you. Give me all your money.” She starts to turn around when I tighten the grip on her arm. “Don't look at me. Just hand me the loot. NOW!”

“Here!” She holds the cash over her shoulder. “Take it!”

I stuff the wad into my back pocket and push the tire iron in her back as a reminder. “Now keep quiet until I get to my car or I'll shoot.”

I dash off, thinking this job was easier than falling off a log.

I barely take three steps when she screams, “Help! Help me someone!”

“Shut up!” I snarl, gritting my teeth, running at her.

She's frantic, pointing, backing away. “Heeeelp! Thieeeef!”

“I said close your head!” I hoist the tire iron and wallop her on the side of her skull with one swift blow. Not hard enough to kill her—but enough to make the trollop shut her trap. She crumples to the ground in an instant. I run like a jackrabbit and hop in the car, hightailing it out of that gas station before anyone can figure out who or what she was snapping a cap about. I drive away with a handful of loot and no cop on my tail. Just like old times.

Turns out there are some things even a person with a sixth-grade education never forgets.

I drive a few blocks and turn down onto a side road to count my cash and reckon what to do next. I pull in front of a house under a shady tree and put the car into park. Next door, a man pushes a lawn mower around his yard, the putt-putt sound of the motor the same like when I was a kid. I count my money. “Yes, sir. Eighty bucks! That lady was loaded.”

I lean my head back, thinking about where to go next. If Bonnie was here, we'd drive about fifty miles and then go out for a nice meal. We'd scoot from town to town, living in fancy hotels for weeks on this bounty. The smell of freshly cut grass reaches my nose and I take a deep whiff, longing for the country. I sorely wish my moll were here to celebrate with me.

Flashing lights go off inside my head, like the kind I remember from Prohibition raids.

Before I know what's happening,
Whoosh!
I'm back inside Jack's head. Alone. In the dark, soundless. If I had that tire iron in my hand right now, I'd hit myself over the head with it for letting my guard down. Must not be the smell of cologne that lets Jack get back in after all.

I can't believe my Second Coming is done as quickly as it arrived.

After my shower, I dress in one of my favorite outfits, hoping to lift my spirits—a red floral vintage-style halter top with wide lapels, coupled with black, high-waisted shorts with two rows of buttons down the front panels. I finish it off with a red feather clip in my hair.

You look swell—for a chippy. Once I take over your body, I'll lose five pounds and those clothes will look right as rain.

Shut up. They look fine now.

Men like their women as lean as flagpoles.

Not anymore they don't. It's unhealthy.

As cool as I thought the legend of Bonnie Parker was, she's way better as a footnote than a companion. All that's left to do now is to lock up these slugs and pray she leaves.

That's a waste of time. Go find Clyde instead.

It could be my infantile aversion to authority figures, but the way she's protesting my putting the slugs back makes me suspicious. It doesn't matter what she says anyway, because I don't trust her one bit. She's not about to give me advice that will make her situation worse.

On the other hand, if she's right and she
is
still around after I've put the slugs back, I need to know what I'm up against. If she can hear through my ears because I'm a bad listener, it makes sense that I need to find out her weaknesses. Hopefully it'll give me an advantage. So far, I know she's a love slave to Clyde, enjoys rotgut whiskey, and sits in the car like a dumbass waiting for Clyde to rob banks. I want to know more, but first I need to locate Jack and Milo to see if anything is up with either of them.

I flip open my laptop, log on to my social network, and do a search for Jack Hale—Chicago. There are only about ten listings, so it doesn't take me long to find the one I want. I request his friendship and send a generic message along with it, hoping he'll shed some light on my dream.

Then I do the same for Milo Ricci. Turns out he's the only one with his name in all of Chicago. I send him a message similar to Jack's and start racing around, getting ready to leave. The sooner I get these slugs locked away, the sooner I'll know if I can get rid of Bonnie before she gains any more power.

I slip on a pair of black sandals and am halfway to the door when I come across the smashed document frame with Bonnie's poem inside on the floor next to my dresser. Plastic shards are everywhere, and parts of the exposed poem stick up between the sharp edges. Another impulsive act—why can't I control myself? If Dad sees this when he wakes up, he'll be furious at me. I kneel down and start picking up the pieces of the container, made even more tedious because I have to be careful not to tear the poem. After several painstaking minutes, I finally free the poem without any damage. “Thank God!” Bonnie and I say at the same time, surprising me. I fold it up and slide it into my back pocket so I can buy a replacement frame at the craft store.

Hey, I wrote that!

“Yeah, I know, genius,” I whisper, imitating her.

She begins narrating the poem as I tiptoe past Dad's closed door, desperate not to wake him. I hate lying to him, so I'd rather not have to make up a story about where I was going, which is what I'd have to do if he saw me now. Luckily I manage to stay quiet enough to sneak out. I take the elevator downstairs, pick up a coffee in the lobby, and catch a Yellow Cab. On the way I come up with an alibi if anyone sees me at the restaurant—that I left a textbook in my dad's office and need it to study for finals.

When the cabbie pulls up at The Clip Joint, I charge my ride to my dad's account before racing to the employee entrance. The door slams behind me, helped by a gust of wind. I make a covert sprint for my dad's office when from behind me I hear, “Monroe!”

My heart stops. It's Dad.

I spin around, and see him walking toward me. “What are you doing here?” he asks.

I smile, my excuse temporarily forgotten in the panic of seeing my father here, so I settle for a detour instead. “I should ask you the same thing. I thought you were still at home sleeping.”

“Guess some of us can actually be quiet enough not to wake the others in the household.” He clears his throat and gives me a wry smile.

“I am quiet,” I reply. He tilts his chin down and stares at me. “Sometimes,” I add.

“I want you to come check something out.” He tugs on my elbow, leading me toward the front lobby. “Billy and Denny are here too.” As I follow him, I'm hoping upon hope that he's got something inconsequential to show me—sturdier hangers in the coat room, revised menu items, maybe a fancy new doorknob on the front door. But when we turn the corner, I see Billy kneeling on the floor next to the toolbox. Denny's standing a few feet away, wiping his forehead with a red bandana.

And there's a brand spanking new display case mounted on the wall between them.

Several spotlights are aimed at a three-foot square glass rectangle that has two glass shelves. The tan beret that Faye Dunaway wore in the 1967
Bonnie and Clyde
movie is on one shelf, alongside a letter of authenticity and press kit photos of her and Warren Beatty.

The velvet-lined plastic box containing three slugs is on the other.

“Wow,” I manage, the coffee I drank in the cab percolating in my stomach. My face heats up, like I'm leaning over a hot toaster. “The display looks stuper, I mean super, guys,” I stammer, anxiety building in my chest.

Dad gives me a sideways glance. “Thanks. We've been working on it all morning. I asked Denny and Billy to help me today in exchange for an extra day off.”

“Gonna go fishing,” Denny says. “Maybe I can convince your dad to come, too.”

“That's nice. For all of you.” I force a smile when all I really want to do is turn around and race outside before Dad asks me about the missing slugs. Because I know he will. Nothing gets past him. My phone vibrates and dings loudly inside my purse. I dig out my phone and see that Jack Hale has accepted my friend request. Underneath my message is his reply:

The urgency in his reply must mean Clyde started talking inside Jack's head, too. I need to return these slugs now more than ever. But how am I going to do that with the clear plastic box locked up inside the display case? Serves me right for sleeping past ten! I send Jack a quick reply that I'll be online in two minutes and toss my phone back in my purse.

When I look up, Denny's next to me, cleaning his glasses with the bottom of his t-shirt. Billy watches us, twisting a bit out of the drill.

“Did you ask Monroe about the slugs yet?” Denny asks, staring at Dad as if challenging him to make good on some promise. His face is stone cold—no smile, no warmth in his eyes.

“No, but I will now.” Dad turns his attention to me. The pride in his face from a moment ago is completely gone, replaced with confusion or anger, I can't tell which. “I paid for five slugs, but there were only three in the box this morning. Did you take two of them out of the box yesterday by any chance?” He watches me, his eyebrows pinched together, his lips a straight line. “Like maybe to show off at the party?”

I change my mind. His expression is definitely anger.

I open my mouth to admit that yes I did take them and that I'm really really sorry, praying he'll forgive me, when he adds, “Even though I told you it would decrease their value by removing them from their original case? You wouldn't have ruined my investment just to have a good time, right?”

Three sets of eyes glare at me. If I tell the truth, I'll be a thieving scumbag in all of their eyes. If I lie, I'll only be a loser in my own.

Denny nods. “Yeah, once the dried blood rubs off, they're not nearly as valuable. Worth thousands one second, scrap metal the next.”

Scrap metal? Is he serious? I want to explain that I took them before I realized it would ruin their value, but hearing Denny say they'd be worthless puts me in a quandary. Should I admit I took them in front of Dad's friends who will then know they're junk, or tell Dad privately so maybe he can concoct some story about how the auction house shipped the last two slugs separately? Anxiety races up my chest and into my face in a flash fire of heat.

What to do? I decide on the second choice. He can always tell them the truth later if he wants, but once I admit I took them, I can't take it back. I twist my hair around my finger, hoping to look casual. “Are you sure there were five? I only remember three in the box when you showed me.”

Who's the liar now, huh?

Shut up. I'm eventually going to tell him the truth.

“Really?” Dad scratches his head. “I'm positive I bought five. I remember looking at them on the auction floor before I wrote the check, but I didn't actually look after they packed them up for me to take home.”

Billy looks me right in the eye. “Guess you can't trust anyone these days.”

Was he referring to the auction house or to me?

Denny shakes his head. “I can't believe they'd risk their reputation like that. No one will want to do business with them after this. After all that money you spent, Gordo.”

I glance at Denny and he diverts his eyes. Good thing they can't see inside my chest or they'd see a swirling black tornado of guilt, along with the Wicked Witch riding on her bike, pointing her bony green finger at me, screeching,
I'll get you, my little pretty!

Dad shakes his head, his mouth tight with apprehension. “I guess the Brownstone Brothers duped me then.”

For a second, I almost think he looks relieved. Like he was hoping it wasn't me. How can I tell him the truth now? A temporary solution pops into my head. “Maybe two of the slugs fell out when we were looking at them yesterday. I can go check your office right now.” The thought of being the hero crosses my mind as I picture myself finding the “lost” slugs under his desk. I take two steps when Dad stops me.

“Thanks for offering, Monroe, but the slugs couldn't have fallen out. The auction seal was firmly intact on the box when I bought them. Archival packaging is meant to be permanent. Someone would have had to deliberately remove them—like slicing the seal with a razor blade.”

“Oh, I see,” I say, wanting to tell him that it wasn't nearly that difficult. “Well, I hope you get them back.” I stare at an imaginary hangnail on my finger, while trying to figure out what to do next. If I head for his office, I can text him to come meet me back there so I can talk to him privately. “Did you see my Trig notebook in your office, Dad? I need it for a test on Monday.”

“No, but you can go check while we finish up.” Dad wipes his forehead with his sleeve. “I'll be there in a minute. I've got to call the auction house right away.”

“The display looks awesome, guys,” I call out, desperately hoping to sound like a girl who isn't hiding a horrible secret. I dash off, glad the Morality Inquisition is over. I don't care what anyone says—you can run from your problems. Or at least dodge them until you have a chance to confess in private. My phone buzzes loudly. It's a message from Jack.