Run For the Money (19 page)

Why was that doctor being so damn stingy with the morphine? Bo’s headache was back right behind his eyes. It almost rivaled his neck for pain of the year.

“Your daddy . . . he killed my brother.”

“So I hear.”

“Now I kill you. See how that works?”

Bo saw. “Even after he killed my dad? Seems like an even Steven thing you got there.”

Rodrigo didn’t see it that way. Rico closed the case. “All here, man.”

“Thanks for the call,” said Rodrigo not taking his eyes off Bo.

Rico didn’t look at Bo. His guilt stank as much as his cologne. Bo squirmed in his seat, creaking wood sounding like the hull of a ship.

Rodrigo saw the soldering iron on the nightstand next to where the doctor sat on his stool.

“May I?”

The doctor lifted it and handed it to him.
Why in the world would he still have that plugged in?
thought Bo.

“You gonna do it or what?” asked Rico.

“Not before I have a little fun first.”

“I thought this was a simple eye for an eye job. He makes a point, you know, his dad is dead too.”

Rodrigo shot a look harder than any bullet from the gun in his belt. Rico gripped the briefcase tighter. “I’m not staying.”

“Suit yourself. There’s plenty of fun to go around, though.”

Rico avoided Bo’s eyes as he stepped through the door. Shit. Bo felt like maybe Rico was giving it second thoughts. Whatever was in that case, or rather how much was in that case, kept him comfortable with his decision to call Rodrigo and spill that he was holding the son of the man who killed Crankhead Bob.

With the click of the door Bo felt all hope suck out of the room. He felt pathetic that his best hope for being saved was the same old pal who turned him in.

Rodrigo put a foot up into Bo’s lap, bent his head over and pinned it there, cheek up to the ceiling, then lifted the soldering iron. Bo was helpless to move other than to struggle against the handcuffs and the chair. The pain from the last pair of handcuffs flared up again just as it was starting to fade, the new set of cuffs slipping into deep groves already worn into Bo’s wrists.

Part of him thought the more he moved and fought, the wilder Rodrigo’s aim would be with the iron and he might end up with a face full of burn marks like Stevie Wonder was the one who went to work on him.

The iron dug into his cheek. Pain rushed as fast as the neurons could carry it to his brain. The smell returned in earnest and brought back memories that seemed much further back than twenty minutes ago. Bo grunted low and ground his teeth together. He pulled at the cuffs until his wrists bled. The hot iron seared through his skin, but there was almost no blood as it sealed the wound with a circle of scarred black flesh on its way through his cheek and into his mouth. He felt the tip of the iron tap on a molar.

Bo really wanted a hit of a bong or a nice little white Vicodin. Or some fucking morphine.

Rodrigo pushed down with his foot, Bo bounced and fought, lifting the chair several inches into the air then crashing it back down. Rodrigo started to laugh though Bo didn’t know how with the scorched flesh smell going right up his nostrils as he hunched over Bo.

The ancient chair had seen many things over the years, but this was the last straw. Bo lifted up again and when the chair came down it snapped. A leg went out, the seat bent and cracked in two, the chair back slipped all five dowels out of the peg holes in the base and then fell to the floor like a game of pick up sticks.

Rodrigo was thrown off balance as Bo’s body crashed to the floor. Bo hit hard, but his hands were instantly free. Rodrigo fell backwards and landed on his ass, the soldering iron fell to the carpet. Rodrigo blinked, saw Bo’s free hands coming up and went for his gun.

Bo reached out and slapped a hand over Rodrigo’s like they were fighting over the check at a restaurant. The gun fired, stalled in Rodrigo’s attempt to pull it from his jeans.

He shot his dick off. The front of his pants grew wet like a piss stain, but darker. Bo reached under him and picked up a broken chair leg. He brought it around and followed the sound of Rodrigo’s scream. The jagged piece of wood planted in his throat and went deep, cutting off the sound like someone cut speaker wires. It was a scene out of a Hammer film and Rodrigo was Christopher Lee getting the stake that would finally kill the vampire.

Rodrigo flopped backwards scratching at the chair leg in his neck and trying to scream. He kicked and struggled like a baby on his back then went still.

Bo looked up at the doctor who still sat on his stool watching the events ringside. Bo readied for another fight. Dr. Latino slid off the stool slowly, walked past Bo and picked up the soldering iron. Bo gripped another chair leg, a two fisted defense that made him look like a poster for a 70s martial arts movie. Dr. Latino clicked the switch to off. They both stood still as a curl of smoke from the singed carpet rose between them.

The door opened. Rico. He scanned the scene, smiled.

“Holy shit, bro. And I thought Rodrigo was pissed. Look what you did, man.” He watched the last slowing movements of Rodrigo on the carpet, a dog dying in a ditch after the car is long gone. “So, we good now?”

Bo couldn’t talk, his cheek and the hole in it ached too much.

“I got no beef with you, Bo. Those boys were paying out fifteen grand for you. Nothin’ personal. Hell, I’m glad you took out this motherfucker. More for me, know what I’m sayin’?”

All Bo knew about what Rico said was that he could go.

Bo stood. Behind him the doctor held out an alcohol swab and some gauze. He gestured to the stool.

“I’ll get the keys, man,” said Rico and went back out. Bo sat on the stool and the doctor dressed his wound.

Bo pointed to the syringe. Dr. Latino held it up along with a vial of morphine. Bo nodded, his eyes pleading. The doctor fixed him a shot.

Bo felt the slow fuzz move through his body and the warmth, nothing like the heat of a soldering iron tip, soaked his brain in a calming bath. Amazing how quickly he started thinking everything was going to be fine.

Rico returned, undid his handcuffs. “Thanks, man. Now I really do owe you one. Fifteen grand and this little shit off my hands? Fuck. That’s a good day at the office, bro.”

Bo pointed to Rodrigo’s unmoving body, to his jeans. Rico followed his finger. “What? The gun? You want it, take it.”

Bo lifted the gun from the waistband of Rodrigo’s dark red pants, wiped off the barrel on Rodrigo’s shirt, and made for the door.

“Amigo,” Rico said. “You want my advice?” Bo looked at him. Each gripped their newly acquired accessory tightly; the gun, the briefcase. “Get out of town. Soon.”

“I plan to,” Bo said through clenched teeth.

For the first time in his life he left the house not on a crystal meth high. On his way out he snuck another glance at the passed-out girl’s wax job from her position on the floor next to the couch. She’d been dumped, skirt riding high, with little fanfare by the junkie in the kitchen who was back at his post nursing another beer.

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F
uck taking the bus, that shit is over.

It was the advertisement that worked. Emma, and everyone else in the world, normally ignored all the ads plastered around an airport, but this time the bright colors and smiling faces of the car rental ad caught her eye.

And it was the car which led to the other brilliant idea, one that had been eluding her for days: how to get the money on the plane without being noticed.

Thank God for slow service because waiting in line to rent a midsize –
what’s that? Why yes I would like to upgrade to a luxury, thank you
– sedan she thought of it. She began with a simple,
What would Slick do in a situation like this?
question to herself. There the answer was. He’d already done it for her. She made the mistake of undoing what he’d already done.

Encyclopedias. Put the money back in the books, wrap them up really well. Really, really well. And check the boxes. All x-rays will see is a nice stack of leather bound books filled with paper. The weight won’t be suspicious.
Why she is traveling with a case full of encyclopedias might raise some eyebrows
, but not enough to get her busted.

And now with a four door luxury sedan it was one quick stop at MaxSecure and she was on her way.

It might have been safer to stop off and buy all new encyclopedias, but a few things were troublesome with that plan. First, where the hell do you even buy encyclopedias these days? Second there was all that cutting. It took Slick three nights to do it all before the bank job and she was due back at the airport at seven-thirty. Two hours. Not enough time. Had to take her chances with the work that had already been done.

Those two jerks she locked in had to have gotten out by now. Right? And what were they going to do? Go to the cops? The security office?

“Yeah, we were trying to rob the lockers but this lady . . . what? Yes, a lady. Well, she clocks us with a big sack of cash and kicks me in the dick.”

Nope. She only met them for a second and she knew they had far too much male ego for that conversation.

Emma approached door 323 with a tire iron in one hand. Two sheets of paper from the E volume poked out from under the door. Otherwise it looked the same as all the other lockers in the place.

She leaned forward and listened at the door. No sound. No struggling. Not even breathing. No way they would still be passed out. Gone home to nurse their wounds and battered pride at being ass-kicked by a woman.

Emma entered the code and the door swung open. The light didn’t automatically switch on since she’d smashed it herself, so she didn’t notice at first. She took a small step in to scoop up the box and then hunt for the right hollowed-out book covers. She smelled it first, unsure what it was. Something organic, animal. Then she saw them.

Cue Ball was crumpled to the floor as much as a body could be in the small space. Eight leaned propped up to almost standing by the stacks of boxes. Both bodies were slightly purple and bloated.

She spun to check behind her. This was the time in all the horror movies when the killer springs out behind you, after you’ve seen his handiwork. The hall was empty.

Emma reversed herself back out to the hall until she banged into the corrugated metal wall. It all came into focus.

Slick. He’d been there. He knew the money was gone now.

Questions, questions. Did he suspect her? Did he know she had the combination? Would he come for her?

The airline suggested being two hours early for her flight. She might be there four hours early. In the relative safety of an airport with everyone on their toes looking to thwart the next guy hiding a bomb in his underpants, Emma could feel safe from even Slick.

She weighed the intelligence of going to the airport right then and forgetting everything else. As she was thinking she caught a glimpse of Cue Ball’s body and gagged. She turned away.

No. She’d come too far. Her new life was close, like Miami was one town over and then a simple trip across the crosswalk and she’s on Grand Cayman. She could smell it like the dead bodies behind her.

It was worth the chance. She wondered to herself how many people still thought it was worth it when the prison door shuts or the bullet passes between your ribs into your heart.

She worked as quickly as she could, keeping her head turned away from the innards of the locker. She dragged the cardboard box out into the hall and picked up volume after volume of hollow shell encyclopedias. She kept track of them alphabetically.

In a short time she had all but G, H and J. She knew from when she unpacked the money she needed every inch of hiding space to fit all that cash. The paltry two grand she took out wouldn’t make a dent.

Using the light spilling in from the hall she could see the covers she needed under Cue Ball’s body with the elusive J under Eight’s.

Emma sucked in a deep breath from the relatively fresh air of the hallway and dipped inside the locker. She pinched the edge of G and pulled, but it slipped through her fingers like it was covered in Vaseline. She looked down at her fingers. Blood. Emma gagged again.

She reached a second time and clamped down hard, giving it a single strong tug. The hollow book cover slid out from under Cue Ball, but his body fell lower, completely obscuring H from view.

She added G to the box and cursed under her breath. She was careful not to wipe the blood on her pants even though she wanted it off her like a colony of ants crawling over her skin. Ants riding on the backs of cockroaches with tiny spider sidekicks.

Emma leaned forward, hooked a finger from her non-bloodied hand through a belt loop on Cue Ball’s jeans and lifted his pelvis so she could see the gold embossed H staring back at her.

She dove a hand under him trying to move solidly so she would only have to do it once. She got a firm grip on the book, but her first tug didn’t do the trick. She hefted higher with the belt loop and tugged again, pulling up on Cue Ball as she did. The volume loosened but so did other things in the storage locker.

Including Eight. Her gratification at securing the H volume was over instantly when the stiffening but still pliable body of Eight slumped forward from his recline on the boxes to drape over her shoulder like a black and white photo of a couple in the twenty-fifth hour of a dance marathon.

The scream started way down in her shoes. It took a while to reach her throat, but when it got there it was a doozy. She knew she’d blown her cover.

Emma bucked off the corpse and shook her body like a parishioner in an old time revival tent. She dumped the H volume and darted a hand in to grab J. Constantly moving her body in contortionist angles she lifted the box of hollow book shells and went for the stairs.

She left the door open and the bodies half spilled out into the hall. Some things weren’t worth stopping for.

––––––––

M
acKaye couldn’t stand because of the boner he hid under his desk. He’d let his thoughts drift back to Emma’s soft, round body and nature took over from there. He was even starting to think those moles on her chin were kind of cute.