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My gut reaction is to lunge over Sean, grab hold of Joanne, drag her into the bathroom. But I end up tackling her, protecting her with my body. The hail of gunfire is ravaging the entire room. The TV and the dresser below it shatter. The shoeboxes full of cash are blown to bits, the cash shredding and blowing around the room like confetti. Bits of foam, fabric, and springs from the now destroyed mattress are spraying in all directions like shrapnel from a detonated bomb. The lamps get hit and the room goes dark. It’s so loud and violent, it’s like a war zone.
Sean is panicking, doing his best to bust out of the chair. I extend my leg and attempt to knock the chair over so that he has some protection. But just as I’m about to push him over with my boot heel, a round nails him squarely in the back of his head. The bullet takes most of his face off when it exits. Just like that, my business partner, former football Sunday afternoon drinking buddy, and my wife’s illicit lover ceases to exist on planet earth.
As quickly as the shooting starts, it stops, the vehicle the bullets came from not peeling out for a quick getaway, but from the sounds of it, slowly moving forward, as though its driver and its occupants don’t care about the police, but instead are more concerned with looking for any signs of life.
“Stay down, Jo,” I insist.
On the bright side of things, the motel room is dark. It allows me to peek out the window. What I’m looking at is a big black Chevy Suburban with tinted windows. A bald, tattooed, young Latino man is driving. His window is rolled all the way down.
“Who are they?” Joanne says from down on her back.
“It’s Perez all right,” I say. “And here I thought they wanted to torture us first.”
“Looks like Juan wanted to expedite our execution,” she says. “Can’t say I blame him.” She hesitates a little. “Wait a minute,” she adds, lifting her hand. “Is that blood on my fingers?”
Apparently, she has no idea about Sean.
“Sean,” is all I say.
“Sweet Jesus, is he dead?”
“He took one in the back of the head, Jo,” I say. “I’m sorry.”
That’s when she shifts and lifts herself off the floor. Meanwhile, the Suburban makes its way across the lot and turns onto the main road, heading north in the direction of Albany. I go to the wall mounted light switch by the door, push them all up. Two dim, ceiling mounted cans turn on near the bathroom. Joanne looks at what’s left of Sean’s head, his brains and facial skin staining the shot-up bed. Shoving herself past the corpse, she hops over all the shattered glass on her way to the bathroom and heaves her spaghetti dinner.
I go to Sean, feel around his backside for his pistol. When I find it, I shove the barrel into my front pant waist. I pat his pockets and find an extra magazine. I shove that into my jeans pocket. It begins to dawn on me that maybe Joanne was right. Going to the police is a bad idea. But this thing still ends today. Tonight. That means one thing. If we’re going to bite the head off the snake, we need to go directly to the snake.
My wife emerges from out of the bathroom. She’s drying her hands and face with a towel. She’s also averting her eyes from what’s left of Sean’s head.
“Grab your bag and your phone,” I say. “We’re leaving before the police get here.”
She tosses the towel back inside the bathroom.
“So soon?” she says, both her hands trembling.
At least she’s still got a sense of humor.
“The police have got to be on their way,” I say. “This is the country, so it’s gonna be a minute. But that’s all. Just a minute. So come on, we have to go.”
Digging into my pocket for Sean’s car keys, I go to the door, undo the dead bolt. The bullets made Swiss cheese out of the cheap wood door panel. Some of the red neon is spilling through the holes like laser beams. I open the door, step out to see the lot occupied by a scattering of motel residents and the owner herself, still dressed in her housecoat. She’s carrying a baseball bat in her hand.
“You!” she screams while I press the button on the key fob that electronically unlocks the door. “I knew you was trouble the first time I set eyes on you.”
“Get in the car, Jo,” I say.
She opens the door, tosses her bag on the floor, and plants herself in the passenger seat. As I go around the Volkswagen, I can see that the hatchback glass has been hit by a stray bullet or two and shattered. I guess it’s illegal to drive it in that condition, but we’re up to our eyeballs in illegalities. And to think my ongoing relationship with Detective Danish started with a broken taillight on my minivan. It all seems like one hundred years ago. At least the tires look to be in good shape.
I open the driver’s side door, jump in, and fire up the engine. Out the now open hatchback, I can make out the sound of sirens. I’m guessing out here in the sticks it will be the State Police who will answer the call. Throwing the tranny in reverse, I back out fast and pray no one is behind me. Then, shifting into drive, I peel out.
“Grab me a stack of cash,” I say.
“How much?” Joanne asks.
“Just give me a stack.”
I hit the brakes as I pull up beside the old woman. Joanne hands me the cash from the plastic bag stored in her leather bag. I peel off half the stack, and hand it to her in the red light of the bright neon sign.
“That’s five thousand dollars,” I say. “It should cover all the damages and then some.”
She just looks at the cash in her hand like it’s the most cash she’s ever seen in her life.
“Just do me a favor,” I say. “Don’t tell the police what kind of car we’re driving and which direction we went. We’re the good guys, believe it or not.”
She just nods. Of course, I don’t know how good we really are. In the eyes of God, I’d say we’re pretty bad. But compared to Don Juan Perez and his gang of cartel drug running gangbangers, we look positively angelic.
The sirens are getting a lot louder.
“We have to go, Bradley,” Joanne says, anxiously.
I hit the gas. We race out of the Riviera Motel parking lot like a burning bat out of hell.