part0018

Ellie wasn’t feeling so hot. She was terribly dizzy and lightheaded. Every time she stood from her recliner, she had to pause, put a hand on the windowsill, and wait until the spots went away. She assumed it was stress: her granddaughter’s passing and then her dog running off.

She still hadn’t found Billy Jack. How long the poor thing could handle the elements was a mystery to her. Thankfully it was the end of August and not the end of January. Poor Billy Jack would’ve frozen solid from one of the routine polar vortex blasts. It had happened; the nutcases down the block had left their dachshund out in twenty-below weather, and the dog had frozen in the night.

Ugh. She couldn’t stomach the thought. Thank God it’s August.

But if she didn’t find Billy Jack soon, he’d certainly develop a bit of a sunburn. That dog didn’t have the sense to sit in the shade. How many times had she pulled him, panting like a fiend, across the patio and under her chair?

Despite Ellie’s lethargic state, these thoughts were driving her out to roam Superior Street, looking for Billy Jack. The search area had expanded this morning. She’d ventured along the lake down to the canal, then cut in a block, making her way back, scanning the streets and alleys. Whenever she passed someone, she made a quick inquiry: “Have you seen a small Xolo?” After the first few people looked at her like she was bonkers, she realized she had to add, “A Xolo is a hairless dog.”

So far, though, she was coming up blank. Not even the slightest hint of her Billy Jack. Kind of like her search for that Canadian pharmacy that had supplied her painkillers. Where is that place? Breaking the pills in half had helped, but she was getting low.

Ellie waved to a young woman whose heels were clicking hard and fast on the pavement. “Excuse me? Can I bother you for a second? Have you seen—”

“Sorry. Can’t help,” the woman grumbled before storming into the Coffee Princess.

Ellie shook her head. Some people can’t be civil until they’ve had their coffee. Well, she could wait. The woman was clearly on her way to something. She’d be back out, coffee in hand, and Ellie would catch her then. Wouldn’t be more than a minute.

Ellie glanced down the cross street. No Billy Jack. But an elderly couple was coming her way.

“No. Sorry. Haven’t seen your dog,” they answered when they reached the corner. “Hope you find him.” They went to the café, hand in hand, and peered through the front window.

Ellie turned to the young man who’d been coming up behind the couple. She had a good feeling about this one, a fellow dog lover. “That’s a cute pug,” she said.

The man didn’t seem to hear her.

“Cute pug,” she repeated, louder.

The fawn-colored dog glanced up with an open smile and one eye.

Maybe not that cute.

The man passed by without a word, tying the pug’s leash to a two-stall bike rack outside the café.

The elderly man, standing near the entrance with his wife, tapped the seemingly deaf man on the arm. “Not sure you want to go in there this second, son.”

The pug man removed a wireless earbud. “Huh?”

“Some kind of kerfuffle going on in there.”

Ellie was close enough to hear this, but not close enough to see the kerfuffle for herself.

The woman nudged her husband, and they decided to move on. The man with the pug studied the situation a moment longer and decided he too didn’t like what he was seeing in the Coffee Princess. He untied his dog and retreated, coming back toward Ellie.

She didn’t bother stopping him; she had half a mind to clear the area as well. It was like watching a flock of birds suddenly take flight. Something was happening.

But before she could go, the high-heeled woman burst from the café, swearing up a storm and slapping a sweaty palm against the window. A police siren came to life several blocks away, and the woman bolted, flying past Ellie with a snarl.

“Goodness,” Ellie gasped, watching the source of the kerfuffle hightail it away. She just stayed where she was.

The officer (Officer Breeland according to his badge) arrived and parked facing the wrong way. As he headed into Coffee Princess, Ellie asked him a pressing question: Had he spotted Billy Jack?

Tiff barely processed Ellie’s presence. She’d been so angry as she’d stormed into the Coffee Princess, and then afterward, she’d been running at such a clip that she wouldn’t have even noticed Jacob Norris himself if he’d been standing there.

The ironic thing was that Tiff had in fact seen Jacob. She’d run right by him as he too was fleeing from the coffee shop. Arguably, it wasn’t her fault she hadn’t recognized him. She only saw his back. But still, she certainly could’ve put two and two together after nearly tripping over Quincy.

The man and his dog had been taking up most of the sidewalk, and in her heels, Tiff hadn’t dared veer into the soft grass to pass, so she’d tightroped along the edge of the sidewalk, lifting her right foot over the squat dog, barely missing his good eye (Glad I didn’t pick the five-inchers), and made the pass in one almost-perfect motion.

Then her ankle had wobbled; her knee buckled; she lurched forward. Only a hand stuck out to slap the pavement had prevented a full-on face plant. Her LV bag had dragged across the cracked concrete with a disgusting, grating sound. But then she’d been upright and running again.

Up the block, around the corner, and down the next block she’d gone before finally collapsing into Bump’s car.

She leaned against the headrest and caught her breath. Even as thin as she was, she had no physical stamina, her weight simply the product of eating like a bird.

“That bitch,” Tiff sputtered, the only phrase that ever came to mind when thinking of Emmelia. That little, conniving, lying bitch. She couldn’t believe Emmelia had called the cops. Was there not a civil bone in her body? So what if she was “yelling”? She had a point to make, and she was going to make it. Not like I was spouting lies either. No, Tiff was speaking the truth, and Emmelia couldn’t handle it. Jacob had been in her café, and the man was still living, breathing, and walking this earth.

“‘Didn’t see him,’” Tiff huffed to herself in the car. “Bullshit.” A fit of coughs came over her hard, and she splattered the steering wheel with spittle. “Bullshit,” she said again. “Bullshit.”

Emmelia was lucky all she’d done was knock over a stack of to-go cups and swipe some bags of coffee off a shelf. She should’ve thrown a mug through the front window. And thrown another mug through the other window in the back. Emmelia deserved it, the treacherous—

The pug she’d nearly tripped over came around the corner. The guy too. And she finally recognized him.

Jacob fucking Norris.

Baby B’s murderer, dressed all fancy in a tucked-in Ralph Lauren polo, slim-fit jeans, and light-blue canvas shoes. He reminded her of those investment bankers she saw on the weekend walking into their offices in Chicago, all cash and no style. She hated them, and she hated this guy.

As Jacob drew near, she slouched low. The gun B had given her was in the glovebox in a clutch. The harpy blade was in her purse (scratched to shit now—the purse, not the blade). Which to use? The blade was closer, but would it do the job? She’d stabbed B’s ex with it once, but that woman had turned out pretty much fine. So much so that Tiff had seriously considered stabbing her a second time a few months later when the dozen-or-so stitches had come out. But she got distracted with other things (B was all hers at that point).

Jacob and his patched-up pug angled toward a parked car, and Tiff yanked her clutch from the glovebox. It’d have to be the gun. Efficient but also very poetic. Using the gun B had given her to avenge his murder would be just like the movies.

But it was too late. Jacob and the dog were in their car. They were driving off.

The gun went on the seat, and the key went in the ignition. She wasn’t to be denied. The next place he stopped, she’d shoot him. Even if it was right outside a police station or on the steps of a church, she was going to kill him where he stood. Repercussions (mortal or eternal) be damned.

And she’d have something clever to say right before she pulled the trigger, something that’d do her Baby B right, something that someone would say in a movie, except all she could think of right then was “Fuck you,” and that wouldn’t do.

Jacob pulled into a spot at the far end of the Days Inn lot and sat for a moment, hands on the wheel. The red hatchback was the only car back there. Most guests didn’t park all the way opposite the entrance, but most guests didn’t have the cartel gunning for them, and he suspected the extra space could prove useful in a pinch.

That was how he had to think of the world now. Threats and escape routes.

He stared at the field of prairie grass next to the hotel, littered with empty cardboard boxes that’d blown from the Cub Foods’ dumpsters. Swallows swooped and dipped through the air, catching small insects.

He knew he shouldn’t be going out. But those capps were amazingly addictive. He’d been craving one all morning, right until the point he’d seen that woman at the counter, waving and swinging her arms with furious animation. Even from the sidewalk, Jacob (and the elderly couple) caught the tone of the woman’s utterances. Nothing but venom and vigor.

The older gentleman, seeing Jacob’s hesitation, had said, “Not so sure we want to venture in there either.”

“How long she been doing that?” Jacob asked.

His wife answered, “She was hollering when we walked up.”

“We’ve only been here a minute,” the man added.

The high-heeled woman knocked a stack of paper cups from the counter.

The woman nudged her husband. “Okay. Let’s come back a little later.”

He grunted, and they were gone.

Inside the coffee shop, the surly spectacle continued. Coffee bags flew from a shelf. The woman pointed to the seating area. She slapped the closest table. Patrons, even those with earbuds, were looking up from their laptops and notepads. Two college-age girls started packing up, jamming things into their backpacks.

The woman towering over Emmelia wasn’t pissed over a poorly made latte; this had something to do with him. Her words reached Jacob muffled and garbled, but he imagined they were “He was here” and “You’re hiding him.”

That was enough. He untied Quincy and took off back the way they’d come.

He’d been searching his phone for Officer Breeland’s number when the woman from the shop nearly barreled over Quincy. She continued on without looking at him. Thank God.

When Breeland didn’t answer, he dialed 911, informed the operator of what he’d seen, and got out of there.

Now, as the swallows circled and dove, each dip another insect’s demise, Jacob caught sight of a gray Chrysler 300 pulling into the lot in his rearview mirror. It looked like nothing, but he really should’ve watched the car. He could’ve prepared himself a bit better. Instead, when the driver’s-side window next to his face shattered into a thousand shards, he nearly shit himself.

Quincy did. He took a crap right on the seat as he bellowed and clambered against the passenger door in a vain attempt to escape.

Despite all that had happened to him, Jacob’s first thought (hope) was that some asshole kid had thrown a rock. But no. The woman who’d been having the fit inside the Coffee Princess was standing there, her feet spread in a firing stance, grinning psychotically, pointing a gun.

“Die, asshole.” She pulled the trigger. The hammer clicked, but no bullet fired. Her grin fell away. Click, click, click.

Jacob scrambled over the center console to the passenger seat, slipping through Quincy’s brown mess.

“Die, asshole,” the sicario kept saying. Click, click, click.

Shoving Quincy aside, smearing him with his own foul concoction, Jacob grappled with the door, certain the harmless clicking would turn into a gunshot at any moment, and he’d get a hot slug right in the back.

Jacob popped his head over the seatback.

The pale security guy Tina had hired stood with outstretched arms, gripping a can of pepper spray. He screamed, “Freeze!”

The sicario spun around.

The woman raised her gun, and it went click, click, click.

Gregory fumbled at the canister’s safety clip. “Freeze. Freeze,” he pleaded as he finally flicked the plastic aside.

The sicario’s defective gun (click, click) went off. Pop!

Gregory clutched his arm, dropping the pepper spray. The canister tumbled and bounced off the pavement. A brief but potent peppery squirt sailed out and hit Gregory in the face. He howled like a stuck pig and fell in a heap.

Jacob got the car door open. He crawled out as Quincy bounced over his back and absconded into the field, disappearing into a half-collapsed Pampers box. Seeing no diaper boxes large enough for him, Jacob dropped to his stomach, held his breath, and watched the sicario’s black heels from under the car.

The shoes turned to the Honda, turned to the field, turned back.

He had the element of surprise. Just like on the balcony. So without hesitation, Jacob went for another air attack. He scrambled atop the car and launched himself, arms spread wide, at the sicario.

He hit her like a community-center wrestler (no grace and crotch to the face). Down she went, hard on her back. One of her heels shot off into the bushes against the hotel to be found the next day.

With a groan, Jacob rolled aside, his balls hurting like hell.

The sicario lay motionless for a second, then came back with a bolt, staring, examining the bits of glass on the ground. She let out a scream and scrambled to her feet.

From the field, Quincy barked and came racing out of the Pampers box to help.

The sicario grabbed her gun. Click. Click.

The pepper spray! Jacob had his own pepper spray. As he fumbled at his pockets, Quincy raced past. “No! Quincy!”

The sicario threw her defective gun at the incoming pug, but it only careened off the pavement and sailed over his head. Quincy leapt with a determined ferocity the likes of which Jacob had never seen, and the sicario crouched low, bracing herself.

Somehow, the woman grabbed the dog midair, and the pug’s courage died with his momentum. His paws dangled, swiping for solid ground as the sicario clutched him by the scruff and the rump.

Jacob found his pepper spray, removed the safety without issue, and ordered, “Put him down.”

The sicario clenched her jaw and squeezed Quincy hard. The dog whined and looked to Jacob for help with his one good eye.

Jacob shook the canister. “Put him down.”

Behind the sicario, Gregory was emitting a series of pained blubbers. Off to the side, a small crowd had emerged from the hotel. A thick gym rat was talking on his phone while a pony-tailed man recorded the standoff.

Of all the thoughts in Jacob’s head, the one that found its way to the forefront at that moment was: At least Tina will have something to post this time.

The sicario gave a frustrated shout, and Jacob, thinking he’d bested her twice now, smirked. There was no balcony for her to jump from this time. He only had to keep her from hurting Quincy until the police arrived.

“Put him down.” Jacob took a step forward. The pug dangled from the sicario’s hands like a dead fish. “Put Quincy down.”

The sicario lifted Quincy into her arms. Either the dog or the sicario was growling. The woman gave Jacob a death stare, kicked her remaining high heel at him (surprisingly accurately), then took off back to her car.

“No! Stop!” Jacob gripped the canister, but he couldn’t bring himself to press the lever. The pepper spray would kill Quincy. Pugs could barely breathe as it was. And his eye infection. What would the spray do to that raw bulbous protrusion? His head would explode.

The sicario heaved Quincy into the Chrysler, jumped in behind him, and tore out of the lot.

Jacob scrambled into his own car, but by the time he swerved to avoid Gregory and got to the street, the Chrysler was nearly out of sight. When he reached the highway, he’d lost her.