Chapter 44

 

 

Ron felt drawn to Apache Junction again, something about the proximity of the shelter there and that temple place where the cash flowed like a steady river. He got off the bus and ambled toward it, doing nothing to draw attention to himself. He kept his pace slow, his head down, but his eyes were watchful.

The pudgy woman in the blue car and the other one—the one who looked like she could take down a wrestler—had been hanging around his home neighborhood way too much recently. They had the look of federal agents, and that bothered him. Their hanging around Heaven Sent could just be part of their undercover operation. He’d decided to take precautions.

As soon as he checked out the hippie couple at the temple—the lure of all that cash was simply too great to ignore—he would take the next bus back toward Tempe where he knew of another shelter. He could hang out there until the nosy women went away. If they didn’t get the chance to question him, they couldn’t nail him for anything.

“Well, if it ain’t the little guy with the sticky fingers,” said a male voice. A man with a vicious scar on his chin had stepped onto the sidewalk in front of him.

Ron’s gut went watery. He looked up and recognized two of the security men from the temple. Shaved heads, hard faces, muscles like baseballs under their jackets. Oh hell.

“Yeah,” said the second one, who had closed in behind him. “He’s the one.”

They positioned themselves ahead of and behind him, blocking the sidewalk.

“You know, our boss was real unhappy about that money you took.” Each of them took a step closer.

“What money?” Ron raised his chin, hoping for an air of defiance. “I don’t know nothin’ about that.”

“Oh yeah, you do. I bet if I went through your pockets right now, I’d find the cash you took from our boss.”

His gut churned some more. They would find cash, all right, and even if it didn’t come from their stupid quasi-religious boss they wouldn’t hesitate to take it and leave him lying in an alley.

“Okay, okay,” Ron said, weighing his options. “You’re right. I’ve got the twenty, right here in my pocket. I’ll just give it back—no harm, no foul.” He couldn’t take his eyes off that nasty scar and wonder about it.

“Well, see, that’s not how it works,” said the second goon. “Our boss, he didn’t tell us to go after the money. See, he told us to teach the weasel a lesson.”

“Yeah,” said Scarface, “so that’s what we gotta do.”

By stepping closer they had edged him toward a thick cluster of oleander. Two more steps and the three of them would be screened from the street view and they could do whatever they wanted. Ron felt panic rising. He’d never been good in a fistfight; he was more suited to quick thinking, to outsmarting his enemies. A picture of Emilio Fernandez, the schoolyard bully, came to mind—it had been the one time little Ronnie got beat to a pulp, and he’d vowed it would never happen again.

“Maybe we could work out some kind of a settlement,” Ron said. “You know, something your boss never needs to know about. How about you go back and say you taught me real good, but you take the money instead?”

“How about we do teach you real good and we take the money?” said the second goon, giving an evil laugh.

“Yeah, that sounds good to me,” said Scarface.

Oh boy. The thick shrubbery brushed against his back. Ron glanced from one of the muscled creeps to the other. He was about to be toast. Without a second thought he did the only thing he could do—he shoved between them and ran out into traffic.