Tonite
R.D. Sullivan
“Come on, come on, come on…” Benicia whispered, eyes flicking between the rearview mirror of the stolen car and the red traffic light. One hand tapped nervously on the steering wheel. She tried to ignore what the pit bull had done to her leg, but it screamed with pain, and blood puddled in her shoe. There wasn’t time to deal with it.
The heat of the summer night pressed in from the open windows, oppressive and dry. No other cars sat at the intersection, nobody waited at the crosswalks. All of Red Bluff shut its doors and called it a night as soon as the sun set and this late? Nothing stirred.
Not even the junkies were out. With as hot as it had been, hitting 112 today, they were likely hunkered by the river that bisected town, trying to stay cool enough to sleep.
Good. The deserted streets would make this easier.
Eyes on the red light.
Eyes on the mirror.
Light.
Mirror.
The white pickup screamed around the corner, tires slipping for a heartbeat before grabbing road and accelerating. She couldn’t see their faces, but she could picture them, how angry they’d look. Angry at her.
She put a hand on the two bags in the passenger seat and ran the red light.
Six Months Ago
Not much had changed about Marcus Fava from the last time she’d seen him. How he’d convinced people to respect and admire him was beyond her. Maybe an inch or two taller than average, he was skinny as a rail, white as they come, and shaved his facial hair into a dumbass pencil-thin line down his jaw. It wasn’t a junkie kind of skinny either—he just had one of those body types that never seemed to fill out.
Her nose wrinkled in disgust when she first spotted him, thought about him touching her, but she tucked it away.
For Rosa.
Getting into the party took surprisingly little effort. A few phone calls to some old friends, a little poking, and she’d been able to walk right into Marcus’s house like she belonged there. The front door had been wide open, after all. Nobody questioned who she knew or what she was doing there, though a bro in a backwards hat had pulled her into the kitchen for shots. Benicia didn’t say no. What did they call it again? Liquid courage?
Now she watched Marcus from across the room, sipping a beer while another guy, Jose, talked at her. She felt overdressed—this party was rife with jeans, T-shirts, leggings and Uggs—but it had been the right move. His Instagram was full of Latinx women in mini-dresses and heels, hair curled, with just a touch of make-up. She’d gone with a red dress, gold stilettos, and a glossy, bronze-tinted lipstick. If she’d read him right, he’d fall all over himself for her.
When he finally saw her.
“Thanks for the beer, Jose,” she said, passing the cup—and his hopes—back to him. He shrugged in his flannel, resigned, as she walked away.
Marcus was talking to somebody by an old pellet stove, an arm’s reach from the door to the backyard. Too close for him to miss her.
Benicia willed her hands not to shake, held her head high, and walked with confidence.
She was next to him now. Reaching for the door handle. Don’t look at him, she told herself, and started to push.
“I wouldn’t go out there,” Marcus said. He grinned, his wide mouth showing stained teeth that went every which way, tucked behind each other, a couple turned sideways, a few crooked.
“Why not?” She leaned against the door and smiled, tilting her head so a few locks of hair fell free. A fishing lure.
“My dog’s out there and he’s kind of a dick. I’d hate to see legs like that get ruined by his dumb ass.”
Benicia laughed. “Point taken. Thanks for warning me.”
“You look familiar.” He took the bait, gently tucking the loose hair behind her ear. Ever so slightly, she turned her face into his hand. “Do I know you?”
“I don’t think so. I just moved here. Or, to Chico.”
He squinted. “A sister? Cousin? Hot mom?”
“Are you saying we all look alike, gringo?” She laughed. “No, no family. They’re all down in SoCal.”
“Well then. I’m Marcus.” He held out a hand. “This is my house and my party.”
“I hope you don’t mind me crashing, my friends ditched me and I didn’t want to call it a night yet. Oh! Sorry. I’m Sophia.”
He kissed the back of her hand. He actually kissed it. She was suddenly very thankful for the shots she’d had.
“How about we get some drinks, and I’ll give you a tour?”
Benicia forced a giggle. “I think I’d like that.”
The red Camaro ate up the asphalt heading north on Main Street, the truck close behind. Benicia whispered a silent thank God when the next light was green. She didn’t get in the turn lane, hoping to buy herself an extra few seconds.
It worked. They’d been gaining ground, accelerating fast, when she turned right, hard. Whatever shit Marcus had in his trunk slid, smashing into the sides. It sounded like something broke.
They had to slam on the brakes to follow her. She was halfway to the overpass by the time they made the turn.
Twin turbos. That’s what that douchebag, Curtis, had kept going on about. “It’s got twin turbos. My truck would smoke that piece of shit Camaro you pretend is a real sports car.” Twin turbos, currently tearing up the precious distance she’d bought herself.
As she neared the hill, it occurred to her that she might not make it. If they were closing the gap that fast on the flat stretch, there was no way Marcus’s 4-banger could take the steep hill without surrendering the last of her lead. And if they managed to stop her here, it’d be a while before anybody found her body.
She was making it, though. They were gaining, but she was to the last turn. If she could get past it and crest the hill…
The truck roared. Benicia was steering out of the turn when the grill smashed into the Camaro’s trunk. The whole car lurched sideways, nose twisting toward the dirt bank. She jerked the steering wheel the other way, pulled the car straight and gunned it. She braced to be rammed again but when she checked the mirror, the white truck was sideways, nose into the opposite hillside, reverse lights on.
She got out of the throttle at the top of the hill and coasted. Years ago, she’d ridden her road bike out here and fondly remembered the long down-hill stretches leading into the tiny community along the river. As long as she had a lead on them, they didn’t stand a chance of catching her until she made it to the house.
Benicia waited for them to get the truck turned around, hooked the next right, and floored it.
Four Months Ago
The sheet billowed out behind her as she walked, stepping over empties and Solo cups, a beer in each hand. At the end of the hall stood a full-length mirror, and the flowing white sheet made her look saintly. Santa Benicia, Goddess of Revenge, Bringer of Beer.
Ha. She only wished God was with her on this. No. This was for her own heart. Hers, and one other.
She stepped onto the bed, straddling his hips before going to her knees. Marcus groaned and slapped at her thigh, still sweaty from their most recent fuck.
“God, babe, it’s too hot, get off!” Instead, she settled one icy Bud Light bottle on his chest. “Fuck that’s cold.”
Benicia took a long pull from her own beer and licked her top lip. “Turn on the AC. You talk about all the money you make, you can run it. Your swamp cooler sucks.”
“That’s a stupid way to spend money. The swamp cooler is fine.” Marcus sat up enough to prop his elbow on the mattress and looked at her. “Damn you’re hot though. I don’t think the AC would fix that.”
Benicia leaned down to kiss him, giggling, and felt him stir between her legs. She managed not to groan. Wasn’t he tired yet?
Apparently not. He grabbed her hair and pulled her into the kiss, ramming his tongue into her mouth. She barely managed to set their beers down before they were at it again.
The condensation had formed little puddles around the bottles by the time he was sated. Marcus absently ran a finger from her ribs to her hip, back and forth. She lay in the crook of his arm, chewing on a thumbnail.
It was time.
Benicia sighed heavily.
“What, babe?” he asked.
“I need to make some money.”
“Where have you applied? I bet they’d tip the shit out of you at the coffee place. Or La Hacienda.”
“Because I’m Mexican?” She flicked him in the ribs. “Dick. I don’t want to be a waitress. I don’t want to work in an office or any of that shit.”
“Yeah? What, then?”
She turned her big brown eyes to him, pouting just the tiniest bit. “Let me work for you.”
Marcus snorted, considered it, and shook his head. “No.” She continued to pout. “Not a chance.”
“Babe…” she whined.
For a moment he looked angry, and it scared her. Not for herself, but for all the work she’d done. All the ground she’d made. She was so close.
Then, his face softened. “No. You’re not the right person. Shit, who would you even sell to?”
She scoffed and sat up, gathering the sheet around her. Easier to have this conversation without him getting tit blindness. “I live in Chico. I go to rich-Chico-people parties. I’d sell more than anybody if you’d let me.” She ran a hand down his chest. “C’mon. Give me a shot.”
Marcus was on her in a flash and for the first time, she felt real fear of him. He shoved her onto her back. One hand went to her jaw and squeezed. The other pinned her wrist to the mattress.
“Are you using?” he asked.
“No.”
“Are you using?!” The fingers on her jaw tightened. Tears of pain and fear ran down the sides of her face.
“No!”
He held on another minute before letting go, though he didn’t get off until he’d examined both of her arms for needle marks. When he sat back on the mattress, she scooted to the far end. Away from him.
“Why?”
Benicia shrugged, sniffling. “You make plenty money and get to party a lot. I don’t want to work in an office or a coffee shop. I can do it.”
Marcus stared like he was trying to peel back her skin to see her core. “Fine.”
Something let go in her chest when he said it. Her smile was genuine.
“But a trial run. Just a little bit. You sell that and come back with the money, I’ll give you a little more. Got it?” She nodded and wiped at her wet cheeks. “Good. Go get another couple of beers.”
The Camaro was doing seventy as she passed the twenty-five MPH sign. Next to it was a stone fence, metal letters proudly announcing, “Surrey Village.” If she’d looked right she might have been able to spot the Sacramento River, swift and cold, reflecting the moonlight between the ancient oaks. But there was no time.
Once again, the truck bore down on the back of the car. Twice she’d braked, just enough to force them to do likewise, before gunning it. They wouldn’t fall for it a third time.
But she didn’t need them to. The house was ahead, three flag-bearing poles spotlighted next to it. Highest and center was Old Glory herself, flapping in the breeze. To the left was the black and white version, one blue stripe beneath the colorless stars. To the right, a green flag with two yellow circles, one inside the other. She could barely make out the two black X’s in the center, but nobody could live here for long without recognizing the State of Jefferson flag.
Behind the three poles was a black metal fence. If she were right, it would be made of hollow, square steel. If she were wrong, if the fence was solid wrought iron like around the Victorians, everything ended there.
There was only one way to find out. Once more Benicia yanked the wheel. For a terrifying moment the car lost traction on the grass. She envisioned it hitting the house, could picture Marcus and Curtis getting away, the homeowners terrified and hurt.
Then, the truck rammed her again. It clipped the back bumper, turning the nose of the car toward the fence just as the tires found purchase. One last time, she put the pedal to the floorboards.
The truck overshot. As she closed on the fence, she saw its reverse lights come on.
She knew they’d follow her. She’d left them no choice.
Tonite
Headlights splashed the house and Marcus shoved her legs off his lap. “That’s him.”
Benicia stretched. They’d been watching a horror movie, she feigning interest as best she could. Really, it had been all she could do to not sprint to the bathroom, hug porcelain, and vomit from anxiety. But if Marcus had noticed her being jumpy, he hadn’t said anything. Then again, he was high as a kite. She could’ve walked across the ceiling and he might not have noticed.
“Pause it,” he said. He opened the door and yelled, “Curt-dog!”
She could just see the heavy-set white kid on the other side, blond and mean-looking. They slapped hands, gripped, and stepped into a back-pounding bro-hug. Marcus moved to let him pass, but the man stopped halfway into the room. A small black duffel bag hung from one hand.
She didn’t look at it.
“Who the fuck are you?” he asked. His eyes roved over her long legs and Daisy Dukes. They hovered on her chest, stretching the limits of the crop top she wore. When he’d finished his tour of her body, Benicia hopped up. She grinned, tucking her dark hair behind an ear sporting a large gold hoop earring.
“I’m Sophia!”
He ignored the hand she held out and glared at Marcus.
“She’s cool,” Marcus said, though he shuffled his feet.
“She one of your dealers?”
“One of the best.” Marcus grinned like he’d actually had anything to do with the cash she’d been turning in.
The guy looked her up and down once more. He spoke to Marcus, but never tore his eyes away. “You sticking your dick in the help, brah?”
“If you knew how much she was making, you’d want to stick your dick in her, too.”
They both laughed, though the guy stepped closer. His free hand rose toward her face. “I don’t know. I might want to stick my dick in her anyway.”
She imagined this pissed off Marcus but didn’t look. This couldn’t blow up. Not when she was so close. Before Marcus could do anything stupid she grabbed the guy’s hand. She held it, gently but firmly, and waggled one finger between them.
“Uh-uh, sweetie. It ain’t like that.”
“I’ll be here a while if you change your mind.”
She held on a second longer and let go. Relief coursed through her when he stepped back.
“I’m Curtis,” he said, and added with a wink, “Let me know when you want to scream it.”
“Only in your dreams, Curtis.”
The creep had the gall to smile at her like he’d won something between them. Benicia just wanted a shower and something loud to stop his voice from crawling around in her brain like a diseased rat.
“Holy shit, is that yours?” Marcus asked. He was staring at the driveway.
“Hell, yeah it is. Just got the plates yesterday. It’s got twin turbos. That truck would smoke that piece of shit Camaro you pretend is a real sports car.”
“Twin turbos?”
“Twin turbos. It’s a beast. Wanna see? Plus, I want to smoke a bowl before we get started.”
Marcus’s knees bent a little with excitement. “Shit yes I wanna see. Get my pipe, babe.”
Benicia grabbed the glass piece from the corner of the coffee table as Curtis tossed the bag down.
“You can grab my pipe whenever you want, babe. I wouldn’t even make you hustle.” He didn’t wait for an answer, just kicked a canvas bag under the table. “Hey, is this it?” he called over his shoulder.
Marcus was halfway down the stairs. “Under the table? Yeah. Bring the keys.”
They stood at the bottom of the steps after drooling over the pickup, packing finely ground bits of green into Marcus’s pipe. She waited for them to have their heads down before trotting up the steps to the house.
When Curtis grabbed her arm, she almost squealed in surprise.
“Where the fuck are you going?” he asked. There was a menace to his voice that chilled her.
She tried to pull her arm free, but he only tightened his grip. “I’m going piss. Let go of me. Fuck!”
“Dude! What the fuck?” Marcus asked. He put a hand on Curtis’s wrist and the men glared daggers at each other. Finally, Curtis let go.
“Go piss then,” he said, that menace clinging to every syllable. “You gonna spark that or just stand there like a bitch?”
“Be my guest,” Marcus said, passing the piece over. “Bring some beers when you come back, babe.”
Benicia walked up the stairs, rubbing her arm and whispering “pinche cabrón” under her breath.
Once inside, she walked down the hall, turned on the bathroom light and fan, and shut the door from the hallway. More carefully than she’d ever done anything in her life, she tiptoed back to the living room. From the floor she took both the black duffel and the brown canvas bag they’d counted cash into earlier. In the kitchen, she took the Camaro fob.
She crept to the sliding door, clicked the lock off, and pushed. Gently, so gently, she pushed. Earlier that day, when Marcus was buying beer, she’d greased the track with furniture polish. The door slid along it like a hot knife through butter.
She didn’t close it. They needed to know. Just hopefully not until she was in the Camaro.
The dog was silent until she was halfway to the gate. She heard the rushing feet in enough time to turn, but not to move. It was a stupid mistake, and she paid dearly. The pit bull sank teeth into her calf. It shook its head and she fell. The bags fell toward the gate, out of the dog’s reach, but that would only matter if she got away. If she didn’t, it might be better to die by the dog than leave her fate to Tweedle-Dee and Dum, getting stoned on the front porch.
Not that they would be for long. She ground her teeth, refused to let the scream out, but the pit was making horrifying noises as it shook her leg like a stuffed toy.
Her first kick missed. The second hit the dog in the chest and it didn’t even notice. The third landed, shoving the dog’s nose toward its eyes. When it squealed in pain and let go she scrambled to the gate, still on her ass. It lunged again but she was out of range now. The chain snapped taut when it was in mid-air, flipping it onto its back.
Footsteps rushed through the house, but the fob was still clutched in her fist. She scooped up both bags and bolted through the gate. They were coming down the steps as she chucked the bags onto the passenger seat and got in. Benicia punched the ignition and jammed the Camaro into reverse.
Too fast. The neighbor’s fence crunched under the back bumper.
Shift to drive. Pedal floored. Curtis had been close enough to pound on the trunk but ran when the gravel started flying. In the mirror she saw him grab Marcus’s shirt and shove him toward the house.
She turned on Main and blew through the first stoplight. No headlights. She stopped at the second, breathing hard. Still no headlights.
The heat of the car, even at night, was oppressive. It felt too hot to breathe. Not taking her eyes off the mirror, she hit the window switch.
“Come on, come on, come on,” she whispered, tapping her hand on the steering wheel.
A white pickup squealed around the corner and accelerated up Main. When she was sure they’d seen the Camaro, she floored it through the intersection.
The airbag exploded in her face as the Camaro hit the fence. Metal screamed but didn’t stop the car, though she’d let off the gas when the bag went. Too far, and the car might dive into the river. Or she’d eat the engine block when she hit an oak tree. It was time to run.
The two bags in hand, she kicked at the door until it finally popped free. Where the dog had bit her stung, but the pain was bearable. Benicia started half-running, half-limping around the back of the house.
“Get that bitch!” Curtis yelled from behind her.
She stole a glance back. They’d parked on the lawn, nose of the truck toward her, catching her in the headlights. The men couldn’t have been too close yet, but it wouldn’t be long. She had to hurry.
Her first instinct when she heard the gunshot was to search the back porch for the homeowner. It was dark and empty. She realized who had the gun and ran faster.
A second shot. Pain ripped through the calf of her good leg and she fell.
This wouldn’t work. She’d die right here. They’d shove her in the river, and that would be the end of it. But Rosa…
Benicia pushed. She pushed with every last bit of hate and sadness she had. She’d fallen on the lawn, but it ended just feet ahead of her, turning to weed-less red dirt before dropping off to the river. Hissing quiet curses through gritted teeth, she got one foot under her. Then the other.
Their third shot hit a tree somewhere ahead of her.
Bags still in hand, she hobbled to the edge of the red bank. Ten feet below rushed the river.
Her calf was a solid wall of white-hot pain. Weight on her other leg, peppered with teeth marks, she held both bags over the bank.
“I’ll fucking drop them!” she screamed. Benicia could hear the hysteria in her own voice.
The men pulled up short, Curtis stopping Marcus with an arm across his chest. A part of her registered surprise that Marcus held the gun. She hadn’t thought he possessed the balls.
“Just give them back and we won’t hurt you,” Marcus said.
“You drop them, and I’ll cut your skin off, piece by piece.” Curtis almost smiled as he said it, like he’d enjoy that.
“Fuck you both!” she shrieked.
“Come on, babe. Give them back and we’ll work it out.” The gun twitched by Marcus’s side, but he didn’t raise it.
Benicia spit. “You killed my sister, pendejo. Get fucked.”
He squinted for a minute, thinking. When understanding washed over him, the anger at being played was evident. “I knew you looked familiar. You’re Rosa’s sister!”
She opened her mouth, but Curtis moved first. He took the gun from Marcus. “Fuck this. Get ready to swim, bitch.”
As she stared down the barrel, it hit her that it hadn’t worked. There’d been moments of doubt, sure, but nothing as concrete as this. She was going to die, and they were going to win.
Benicia squeezed her eyes shut.
“Drop it!” a new voice yelled. Floodlights bathed the backyard, bright and painful. A dark figure stood in their depths, gun held out.
Curtis didn’t hesitate. He swung the gun to the porch.
Three shots, and Curtis collapsed.
“Fuck!” Marcus screamed. He jumped back, a hand atop his head, and searched the lights.
The man crept up, profile sideways to Marcus, knees bent like he was stalking prey. “Hands up!” Then, “Don’t I know you?”
“No, I, I don’t know. Maybe. Don’t shoot me man. Please. I can explain.”
“I do know you,” the man said. “You’re that fucking drug dealer. Marcus Fava. You killed my son. You killed Alex.” There was a long pause. “I always said I’d shoot you if I got the chance.”
“Please,” Marcus begged, and Benicia enjoyed the tears on his cheeks. “Please. I’m sure it wasn’t me. I can give you money. I—”
“Get on the ground. Hands behind your head.” He yelled back to the house, “Jessica! Get my handcuffs.”
He spared Benicia only the quickest of looks as she slumped to the ground, cradling the bags.
“And you,” he said. “You’re dead. I saw the pictures. You’re dead.”
It wasn’t until he had the handcuffs on Marcus and a knee in his back that it even registered—the cop had been talking to her.
Two Years Ago, Tonite
She’d been seventeen, on summer break and visiting her sister. Benicia hadn’t wanted to go to the party, especially after finding Rosa’s kit earlier in the day, but she’d insisted. The needle was still on Benicia’s mind as they drank beer and hung out at the house of some guy named Marcus. Alex, Rosa’s boyfriend, was acting weird too. Benicia figured they were both fucked up on whatever they’d been shooting.
So, when Marcus told Alex to go do something and Rosa asked Benicia to ride along, she’d said no. She’d known Alex sold, but knowing he’d gotten her sister into it? All she wanted was to go back to San Diego.
By dawn, they hadn’t returned. Benicia walked to Rosa’s apartment and found it empty.
She walked to Alex’s. They weren’t there, either.
By luck she managed to find the house they’d been partying at again, and she’d pounded until Marcus answered.
“Where’d you send Alex? I can’t find him.”
Something dark had flashed across his face. “Fuck off, kid,” he’d said, and slammed the door.
She could hear Detective McBride wailing in the back of the police station before she’d even explained who she was looking for. Pity flashed through the lady’s face, and Benicia knew it was bad. Nobody told her anything, they just sat her in somebody’s office to wait. The door was still open when two officers wrestled the flailing detective past, the man screaming “I’ll kill him! Give me one shot at the fucker. One shot! Let me go, I need to find him!”
She’d heard the phrase “mad with grief” before, but now understood it.
One of the officers came back and shut the door.
Benicia wiped away her tears when McBride walked up. He’d since changed out of his pajamas into jeans and a tee, but the sleep-rumpled look still clung to him. He gestured into the back of the ambulance, climbing in when she shrugged. It was a tight space. Intimate.
“I’m…Sorry, I guess. For saying you’re dead. You look just like her.”
Benicia sniffed. “You said you’d shoot him. I heard you, in the police station that day. After the crash. You said you’d shoot him if you saw him again.”
“I’m sorry you heard that.”
“You’re just a whole lot of sorry, aren’t you?” It felt as petulant as it sounded, and she looked away. The ambulance stayed silent a long while.
“I considered it. Nobody would have questioned me. I had nothing to lose.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“It wouldn’t bring them back. Not my son. Not your sister. He was unarmed. Now he goes to jail and I can still sleep at night.”
Benicia didn’t even try to hold back the tears this time, though she was surprised to see the cop’s cheeks damp as well. He shook his head and gave a single laugh.
“This was incredibly stupid. You’re lucky to be alive.”
“Don’t lecture me,” she snapped.
“Trust me, I’m not. The amount of planning, I mean…this must have taken forever.”
“Two years. Exactly.”
Realization hit him, and he gave a soft, “Oh.” He thought another moment. “Did you really sell drugs to get close to him?”
“Fuck no. That shit is awful. I paid for them from my inheritance, pretended like I was selling in Chico, and flushed the drugs. There’s some high-ass fish in the river right now.”
It started with a single chuckle, then two, until he was shaking with laughter. “High-ass fish,” he repeated, and climbed out of the ambulance. “They’ll take you to St. Elizabeth’s and patch you up before we talk. I really want to hear the full story.”
He started to walk away but she called after him. “Detective McBride! Marcus told me how he did it. What he did to the brakes in Alex’s car when he caught him skimming. I wrote it down. Date stamped it at the post office. I don’t know if it’ll help, but he told me.”
“Good,” he said. “That’s real good.”
Benicia watched him disappear into the wash of red and blues cutting through the night and lay back on the stretcher.