Hot Wire (3 page)

"Hang on a second."

I put the Corolla in gear, then pulled around the trailer rig and started towards the Lexus. I should have just backed out, but I wanted a closer look.

"What the hell are you doing?" Arn squirmed on his seat. "They left the car door open. They're coming out again."

"Just a second."

I pulled up beside the Lexus, inching forward until I could see inside.

"The keys." I was buzzing. "They left them in the ignition."

"Forget the keys. Let's go."

I had tunnel vision. Everything started to speed up and I felt like I was watching myself on fast-forward on some grainy VCR. I turned the car around, got out, then ran over to the Lexus and sat down behind the wheel. The interior was lush: deep seats, charcoal leather trim, DVD navigation system, power moon roof. It smelled like cigars. It smelled like money. The engine started right away – nice and quiet. I felt like I was rushing on some lab-grade acid.

Arn hadn't moved. He gaped at me from the Corolla, his mouth hanging open. It was almost comical.

"Go!" I waved him off. "Go!"

I closed the door and groped for the parking brake. Just then, the front door of the building opened and I caught a glimpse inside: cinderblock walls, stacks of crates, a low-watt bulb hanging over a table. The short, fat guy sat on a chair by the table, hands behind his back, head dangling on his chest like he was unconscious. I had a second to take this in, then everything blew up in my face.

Baldy came out. He looked grim: thin lips, no neck. He stopped dead when he saw me.

"What the hell?"

I guess he wasn't expecting to see this skinny little chick with a ponytail and glasses trying to jack his car, but he didn't hesitate for very long. He gave me a double-take, scanned Arn sitting in the Corolla next to the Lexus, then he reached inside his jacket and pulled out a revolver.

It looked gigantic.

I freaked. I don't know. I kicked at the gas, missed the pedal, then found it again, but the car balked and I had to snap off the parking brake before I could burn out of there. Fish-tailing down the street, I checked the rearview with my heart banging like a flat tire.

Arn was still sitting on the passenger side of the Corolla. He snapped out of it when he saw Baldy and tried to scramble over to the driver's side, but it was too late for him to get away before Baldy stuck the revolver against his head.

I hit a bump. Clipped a dumpster.

Jesus Christ. The rearview framed disaster: the Corolla, a circle of streetlight, my own spooked eyes. Baldy dragged Arn out of the car, knocked him down, then kicked him a couple times while Arn rolled around on the pavement, trying to protect his head. Crewcut ran out of the building and saw them, then he saw me driving away and ran into the street. Baldy dragged Arn to his feet, locked his arms behind his back and Crewcut walked up to him and punched him in the gut, doubling him over. Arn sagged. They dumped him on the blacktop.

I hit the brakes. I couldn't ditch him.

Baldy ran around the Corolla, then jumped in and turned on the headlights.

I stomped on the gas.

Left Arn behind.

Panic.

I pulled up to a stop sign at West Grand with the Corolla right behind me, its headlights blinding in the rearview. There was traffic coming in both directions, but I couldn't just sit there, so I pulled out and floored it and almost plowed into a truck. Brakes shrieked. A car jumped the curb in the other lane. I yanked the wheel to the right, cutting off the truck, the driver blasting his monster air horn.

I made the highway, but I had to slow down to merge and when I checked the mirror, I saw that the Corolla had just turned onto the ramp. It was one a.m. Sunday morning and the traffic sucked with all the drunks and maniacs loose on the road. I switched lanes, passed some cars and changed lanes again, weaving in and out at thirty miles per hour. Headlights swarmed the rearview, then I saw the Corolla again – left lane, two cars back. Baldy was dogging me like a pro.

The slow-motion chase went on for miles and I could never tell if I had finally lost him in all that traffic. When I turned off on 80, it looked like I was clear, so I took the Powell Street exit into Emeryville and started to catch my breath. Then I got caught by the light at Christie Avenue and the cars backed up behind me – a mob of steaming headlights.

I thought I was going to puke. I'd left Arn behind, abandoned my best friend, but losing the Corolla like that was fatal. The car was registered to Heberto's shell company and my prints were all over the wheel. Baldy wouldn't have any trouble identifying me if he was some kind of cop.

For a minute, I thought I'd lost him, but when I checked the mirror again, I spotted the Corolla stuck at the foot of the off-ramp half a block away. It was Baldy, all right. I couldn't believe it. Maybe the Lexus had a tracking device and he was using GPS to follow me wherever I went, but there was no way to really know. I had to ditch the car and I had to make sure he didn't see me do it. When my light changed, I hung a left and tried to put some distance between us, nudging the gas and watching for patrol cars as I shot through the foggy streets.

Five blocks later, I turned off and clattered across some tracks into a dark neighborhood by Christie Park. I was watching the mirror to see if anybody had made the same turn, but nobody followed as far as I could tell, so I kept on going until I reached Shellmound and turned east again, heading towards a familiar glow of neon in the distance. Then it hit me that Deacon's station was only a couple blocks away and I got this sick feeling that I'd just screwed up again. It was a violation of all the rules to bring a tail anywhere near the place, but I'd worked my way back there through some kind of homing instinct. Traffic was heavy on Shellmound, the rearview full of headlights. I couldn't tell if I had lost him. I didn't know if it was safe to ditch the Lexus and try to get away on foot.

I was still trying to decide if I should get clear of the area when I rolled past the station:

Deacon's Nite-N-Day.

#

Deacon's service station was a blob of light on the corner of 68th and Shellmound. Across the street, a neon cocktail glass wobbled over the Hot Box, a cinderblock bar crammed between a warehouse and a scrap yard full of rats. I slowed down when I passed the station, watching the mirror, then I took a big chance and pulled into the storage lot about a hundred yards down the block. I was out of options. I had to get off the street.

Deacon's ring stole thousands of cars every year and stored them all over the city, but this was his main lot and it was almost full tonight, rows of windshields gleaming under an arc light, a school bus and diesel rig parked in the back. Deacon was moving stock down to Heberto's warehouse to make the next shipment and most of the cars in the lot had already been sanitized with new plates, papers and Vehicle Identification Numbers. Buster sat inside the attendant's booth, puffing a cigar in front of a dwarf TV. A porky black guy in his fifties, he used to be a rental cop before he got busted with a trunk full of Ipods from the store he'd been guarding. He was a letch and a drunk, but I liked him OK. He jumped to his feet when I shot by in the Lexus.

I drove through the lot and parked in back, behind the school bus, then I switched off the engine, killed the lights and just sat there for a minute, trying to get my head together. When I got out, I hunkered down by the front fender and checked the lot. It was cool and dark behind the bus. Headlights passed on the street and Buster's TV flickered in the booth. A minute later, a shadow blocked the screen and he came shuffling over with a crowbar in one hand and stopped about ten feet away.

"Emma?" he called. "That you?"

"Back here," I whispered. "Get out of the light."

"What the hell you doing?"

I pulled him behind the bus.

"Arn got caught," I said. "They came after me in our car and I think they're still on me."

"Say what?"

Just then, the Corolla went by on the street, passing under a neon sign on the corner. The sight of it gave me a shock like somebody had just zapped me with a Taser. Baldy sat behind the wheel, steering with one hand and talking on a cell phone. It was him, all right. I could see him clearly under the glow of the sign. He scanned the lot while he drove by, his eyes catching the light for a second and glowing like diodes, but he kept on going. Maybe he wasn't using GPS after all. Or maybe he knew the car was there and planned to collect it later.

"Jesus." My hands were shaking. "That was him."

"Him who? Who you talking about?"

"I don't know who he is, but he's driving our work car."

"How'd he get that?" Buster frowned. "Where's Arn?"

"Down by the warehouse."

"The
warehouse
?"

"Yeah." I walked over to the Lexus, hugging myself and shivering in the damp air. I'd scraped the right-front fender when I clipped the dumpster, but otherwise the car was in good condition. "We've got to get this out of here. Hide it somewhere."

"Dump it on the street." Buster had picked up on my fear. "What you want to bring it here for?"

"He followed me all the way from Oakland." I was freaked. I could feel my stomach trying to crawl away and hide. "This was the first chance I had to get off the street. He's still out there. I can't risk taking it out again."

Buster walked around the car, mumbling to himself.

"In the garage," he said.

"What garage?"

"Back in the alley." He spit on the gravel. "I got to get the key."

He walked back to the booth and I knew he'd call Deacon first thing. Bringing the car back to the lot had been a mistake, but it was too late to do anything about it now. I got in the Lexus to wait, but a minute later, I got out again, leaned over and puked on the grass, choking and coughing. When Buster came back, carrying a flashlight, he looked at me like I was already cold and planted.

"That way." He pointed at the alley. "Cut through over there."

"You call him?" I wiped my mouth on my sleeve.

"Yeah." He came off gentle. "He want to see you when we're done with this shit."

"Is Heberto still there? Did you see him go in?"

He nodded. "They waiting for that Jacobo skunk."

"I'm in trouble, Buster. I really screwed up."

"Deke help you if he can."

I climbed into the Lexus and he led the way to the alley, shining his flashlight on the ground. I leaned over the wheel and tried to dodge all the cinder blocks and broken glass. The alley was narrow: brick walls, trash cans, a streetlight down the block. Buster unlocked a garage door, then pulled it up and waved me inside. Once I'd parked, he closed the door behind us and turned on a fluorescent light hanging over a work bench in the corner.

We searched the Lexus, checking under the seats and dashboard, poking around the engine, the tire wells, crawling under the chassis. We couldn't find any tracking devices like GPS or LoJack – my first break that night – but that just scared me in a different way. Baldy had dogged me from Oakland to Emeryville through all that traffic. He had experience. Mobile-surveillance training. I would've lost an ordinary civilian. When I checked the glove box, I found registration and insurance papers made out to H. L. Chase – some address in San Francisco. H. L. Chase. Maybe that was Baldy's name. Maybe not. There'd been three guys in the car.

"This is bad," Buster muttered the whole time. "Real bad."

He popped the trunk and while he rooted around back there, I went through the key ring that had been hanging from the ignition. There were four keys: ignition; trunk; a house key, maybe; and a big brass key marked Yah Joe. It looked like the key to a storage locker, but there was no way to tell for sure. Yah Joe. Sounded like a Chinese laundry. I tossed the keys in the glove box and tried to figure out what to say to Deacon.

"You be careful." Buster pulled down the garage door when we were done and locked it again, checking the alley in both directions. "I'll keep an eye out for this dude got your car and you give me a call you need something, all right? Anything at all. Pigs come sniffing around, I'm gonna ditch it and take a vacation."

"What're you talking about?"

"What you think I'm talking about?" He dragged a sleeve across his mouth, his eyes worried. "I'm talking about
Heberto
, man. You know them spics don't like the brothers and he's just looking for a reason to cut me loose and move one of his crew down here. Shit. He wants to get rid of you, too, but he got to wait for us to mess up so bad Deke'll have to go along with the program." He was talking real fast and his breath reeked of whiskey and cheap cigars. I'd never seen him so rattled, but he was half drunk and he'd probably spent a lot of time brooding about the new regime. "Anything go wrong, we're the scapegoats, baby. First sign of trouble, I'm getting rid of that thing and I'm out of here before the pigs shut us down and them
locos
decide to cut my throat. They scare me, man. The whole bunch is crazy. They wants to
take over
. Get rid of Deacon. They want it
all
."

"I'm sorry, Buster." He was even more paranoid than I was. "I didn't know where else to go."