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Which brings me to the here and now, once more sitting behind the wheel of the old gray minivan in the massive Lowe’s parking lot. I’ve got a whole bunch of materials I need for dissolving human flesh and bone stored in the back. The kid who checked me out was suspicious of me. Didn’t matter how stoned he was, he was smart enough to know that you just don’t buy a whole bunch of hydrochloric acid and a fifty-gallon tub to clean the wife’s jewelry or, for that matter, grandma’s messy basement. You buy it because you need to get rid of some serious evidence. Bodies of evidence.
I turn the engine over, put the minivan in reverse, and back out of my spot. I then put it in drive, and head for the main road. Keeping both hands on the wheel, I’m careful not to speed. Like Joanne said, I don’t want to go too slow either. That will attract a cop’s attention as much as speeding would.
Under normal circumstances, I don’t really pay attention to the speed limit all that much. I just use common sense and wing it. Besides, it’s not like a twenty-plus year old minivan with two-hundred-thousand miles on it and rusted fenders is anything like driving a gangster’s hotrod. If I get the speedometer up to sixty-five on the highway, the entire thing begins to shake, rattle, and roll. By all rights, I should have bought a new vehicle years ago. But who can afford a car payment when you’re paying on a mortgage, on the overdue credit cards, on the mother-in-law’s nursing home, and who the hell else knows where the money goes? All I know is that it goes and goes as fast as it comes in.
My pulse elevates as I enter the tree-lined suburb. The police are always patrolling these sleepy roads because there’s always some kid racing his brand-new Jeep or motorcycle on them. I feel a layer of sweat coat my forehead and underarms. Why the hell am I so nervous?
“Just act naturally, Brad,” I whisper to myself, as if hearing my own voice will somehow put me at ease.
I’ve got one eye on the road and the other in the rearview. Both my hands are gripping the wheel. I can’t get home fast enough. But then, I can’t do more than thirty-five since this is a thirty MPH zone. When I see the Albany blue and white pull out behind me, I feel my insides drop down to my ankles. Where the hell did he come from?
I’m not doing anything wrong, so why should I be nervous? But the cop pulls up closer anyway, his front grill hugging my back bumper like two polar opposite magnets. Heart shoots up into my throat.
“Don’t do it,” I whisper through a dry mouth, one eye on the road, the other on the rearview. “Don’t you turn those lights on.”
When the cop cruiser’s rooftop lights flash and its siren blares, my heart jumps up into my throat. Mouth goes dry and stomach cramps.
“Oh, what the Christ,” I whisper.
“PULL OVER!” demands a deep manly voice over the cruiser PA.
No choice. I hit my directional, tap the brakes and pull onto the soft shoulder. Roll down the window and wait. The cop pulls up right on my tail. His big cruiser is idling and the bright red and white flashers are still going. Watching his reflection in the rearview mirror, I see him get out and approach me.
He’s a big white guy. Way bigger than me. His blue uniform fits him snuggly, like he had it specially tailored to fit his bulging biceps and thighs. I should hit up the gym more, but I can’t really afford the membership. He positions himself not directly before the open window, just in case I’m a crazy man who’s holding a loaded gun. Instead he stands a little bit behind me, so that I have to cock my head over my shoulder to get a good look at him.
I paint a friendly grin on my face, even though it’s the last thing I feel like doing.
“Know why I stopped you?” he asks, freshly shaved, round face deadpan, almost like he’s not real human flesh. Like he’s a cyborg.
I try to swallow, but my mouth’s too dry.
“I must have been speeding, Officer,” I say.
I can’t help but notice the name embossed on the little black rectangular plaque pinned to his chest directly above his badge. Danish. If I was a lot younger and a bit more of a wise ass, I might make a small quip about cops and donuts and raspberry danish. But right now, I’m scared to death and shaking in my loafers.
“Nope,” he says.
I swallow again.
“Okay, I give up. Why did you stop me?”
I see the face of the stoned kid who checked me out at the Lowe’s. Did he call the cops on me? Was he really that suspicious after all?
“Brake light is out,” Cop Danish points out.
My lungs deflate. Damn brake light.
“Which one, Officer?” I ask.
“Passenger side,” he says. Then. “Now, license and registration please.”
“Of course,” I say.
Releasing my hand hold on the steering wheel, I lean over the center console and open the glove box. It’s a shit house. Stuff immediately begins to drop onto the floor. A single winter weather glove. A smashed box of Kleenex. A tattered driver’s manual from two decades ago.
I offer the officer a quick glance and another grin.
“Glove box could use a good cleaning,” I say.
“Take your time,” he says, both his hands on his hips.
That’s when I reach inside for the little plastic pouch I store my registration and insurance certificate in. That’s also when I feel the pistol barrel. Now my stomach doesn’t cramp. I feel it splitting in two. Cold adrenaline mainlines up my spine. Head is buzzing, temples pounding. Can Officer Danish see the gun? Because if he can, I’m done. I don’t have a license for it. I can bet the gangster who owned it didn’t have a license either. The cop will order me out of the car at gunpoint and I will be arrested on the spot. Since the piece isn’t registered to me, he’ll demand to know where I got it, and why I have it.
When the hell did I put it in the glovebox? That’s when it occurs to me that I must have slipped it in there after I took off from the scene of Joanne’s accident with the gangbangers. Joanne took care of the other gun. In any case, in all the confusion and panic, I must have totally forgotten about the guns. Happens at my age. It’s to be expected. But why now? I keep feeling for the plastic pouch, praying to God the gun doesn’t fall out. I feel pouch with the tips of my fingers, gently slide it out, and quickly slam the glovebox shut. Only then do I feel a profound sense of relief.
Opening the pouch, I find my registration and insurance certificate and hand them both to the officer. I then dig my hand into my back pocket, produce my wallet, and slide out my driver’s license which I also hand to him. He gives each document a quick glance.
“Stay put,” he says.
“Sure thing, Officer,” I say.
He backs away from the van, heads back to his cruiser, slips behind the wheel leaving the driver’s side door open. A car goes by, the driver slowing down and rubbernecking me. I recognize the man driving. He’s one of my neighbors and a sort of buddy. Guy by the name of Sean MacDonald. He’s a casket salesman. He’s one of those guys that has a fully stocked bar in his basement and naturally, he’s always drunk. For sure he’s coming from Lanie’s Bar down the road. Why isn’t he the one getting pulled over? He issues me a smile like I should be happy about seeing him. I offer up a quick wave and he drives on.
My eyes refocused on the rearview, I see that Officer Danish is busy typing all sorts of crap into his dash-mounted laptop. I grab my cell phone, speed-dial Joanne.
“Where the hell are you?” she says. “You should have been back by now.”
“Ran into a little trouble,” I say.
“What kind of trouble, Bradley?”
“I got stopped by an Albany police officer.”
For a weighted second, just breathing.
Then, “You have got to be fucking kidding me.”
Hold the phone a sec. For Joanne to swear, she’s got to be extremely angry. Enraged even. But for her to use the F-bomb, her head has got to be ready to explode.
“Apparently the passenger side brake light is out,” I say. “Who knew?”
“Well, it’s a perfect time for you to find out.”
“Listen, Joanne,” I say, “one of the guns we took off the gangsters is stuffed in the glove box. I don’t recall putting it there.”
More breathing coming over the phone.
“Oh shit,” she says.
“What do you mean, oh shit?”
My eyes back on the rearview and the cop. He’s still punching the keys on his laptop. What’s taking him so long?
“I put it there,” she says. “When you were cleaning up the blood, I put it there and took the other one into the house for safe keeping. I mean, what if we happen to need them for protection?”
“Why in God’s name would you do that?”
“I don’t know!” she shouts. “Stop pressuring me, Bradley. I was under tremendous duress at the moment.”
“We both were,” I say.
Another glance at the rearview. Officer Danish is getting back out of the cruiser and heading my way.
“Joanne, I’ve got to go,” I insist. “Let’s hope he just slaps me with a ticket and I can get the hell out of here.”
“Just be yourself,” Joanne says. Then, “No, wait. Be kind and courteous.”
She hangs up.
“Okay, Mr. Jones,” the cop says into the open driver’s side window, “I would have let you off with a warning, but it turns out your insurance is long expired. You pay your bill lately?”
I can feel the blood rushing to my face.
“There must be some mistake, Officer,” I say. “I always pay my bill on time. That must be an old certificate.”
He hands me back my license, registration, and apparently lapsed insurance card. I set them on the empty passenger seat.
“I’m gonna ticket you for the broken lamp and let the insurance go, assuming you will take care of it immediately,” the cop goes on. “Make sure you get the lamp fixed A-S-A-P or the next ticket will be much worse.”
“Oh, I will be sure to get it repaired right away. Thank you, Officer.”
He nods. “You have a nice day now.”
My heart is still pounding in my throat, temples still throbbing. I turn the key in the ignition. The minivan starts. I make sure to engage my directional since Officer Danish is making certain he doesn’t leave the scene until I pull back out onto the road first. I guess cops are like that. Always making people nervous. I check the side-view mirror to make sure the coast is clear, and then pull out. One eye on the road, the other on the rearview, the cop kills his overhead flashers and pulls out behind me.
He keeps his distance while I drive and make double certain to follow the speed limit. But I’m so concerned with his presence, I don’t see the pothole just up ahead. When I run over it, the old van lurches and the back hatch opens on its own. That’s when the stuff I bought at the Lowe’s spills out onto the street and that’s when Officer Danish hits flashers for the second time.