THE FIFTH WHEEL trailer slowed, made a turn, and bumped. The rig came to a stop.
“Where do I take the money?”
“Ta the back of the old Sears, on Long Beach, in the parking lot.” Monster checked his watch. “You got about ten minutes.”
I picked up my stocking foot. “Shoes?”
“Whatta bunch of buuullshit this is. I ain’t givin’ ya mine. No way in hell, not for some smoke ta wear.”
I got up and moved to the small bedroom section of the trailer and opened a closet. Inside the confined space, some men’s clothes took up half and women’s the other. I reached in and touched the blouses. Sonja’s, for sure. Her bras and panties hung on a hanger as well. I didn’t touch those. Couldn’t if I wanted to. I no longer loved Sonja, but felt the need to protect her from the likes of Bobby Ray. The fact that he could corrupt such a good woman still wormed its way in, and with it came the anger that needed a vent.
I leaned back and looked at the king-sized bed that encompassed the entire upper birth—the overhang of the trailer. I shook off the image it conjured and reached down and grabbed the only shoes there, a pair of rattlesnake-skin cowboy boots.
I went back into the kitchen area, sat on the couch, and pulled the boots on. I wore size thirteen. Bobby Ray, well, he didn’t. For someone so large, he didn’t have a big foot. My toes didn’t like it one bit, but there wasn’t anything I could do about it. I stood and stomped my feet into them the rest of the way.
The back gate came down as Monster undid the nylon stays holding the bike upright. The young biker whom Bobby Ray had shaken until his teeth banged helped Monster roll the bike down the ramp to the asphalt parking lot. I grabbed the bag of money and followed.
The sun sat low in the sky, maybe four or five o’clock. Where had the day gone? Marie must think I’d gone off and taken care of The Sons all on my own, never to be seen again. I had thought about it. Get it over with and leave her out of it.
But it didn’t work out that way. I’d convinced myself I needed to see Sonja first, see what she had to say, and then all hell had broken loose.
Now I stood in a parking lot in Lynwood wearing too-small snakeskin cowboy boots, about to mount a hog with a paper grocery bag of money on my lap. What the hell?
I walked over to the bike, my toes screaming for relief.
The bike, all chrome and fat tires, reflected the orange and yellow from the fading day. The gas tank, a true work of art, depicted Peter Fonda riding a Harley, with the wind in his hair, his sunglasses reflecting the image of someone riding beside him on another bike. Probably meant to be Dennis Hopper, but the image lacked enough detail to tell for sure. One of the nicest bikes I’d ever seen.
I’d ridden a bike for a short time in my misguided youth. Then I responded to three fatal bike accidents in one week, none of them the fault of the bike rider, and I gave it up for good.
I went up to Monster and held out my hand, much like he did when he wanted his knife back.
“What?”
“I need a gun goin’ into something like this.” He gave me a hard look.
“If I come outta this whole, enough to talk,” I said, “you want me talkin’ smack to Bobby Ray about how you didn’t do what I asked?”
He reached into his pocket, pulled out the little gun, and slapped it into my hand. I checked the loads, snapped it shut, and stuck it in my waistband for easy access.
“Now,” I said to him, “gimme your helmet.”
“No way in hell am I lettin’ you put your nappy head in my brain bucket. No. I won’t do it. I don’t care if you do rat me to Bobby Ray. I won’t do it.”
I turned and looked at the young biker, who stood by watching. He hesitated, then went to the truck. He came back with one of the small helmets that barely met DOT regs. Not much protection, but without it I stood a chance of getting pulled over for a helmet-law violation. I took it. Now I wore too-small boots and a dumb-assed helmet that hurt my head all the more.
I kick-started the bike, which roared to life. Monster shook his head and said over the rumble, “You look like one of those bike-ridin’ chimps in the circus.”
I’d had it with him. “After this is all over, you and I are gonna talk.”
“Look forward to it.”
I stuck it in gear and took off. The power of the bike almost got away from me. The handlebars jerked, stretched out my arms, and all but peeled my fingers from the grips. I zoomed out onto Atlantic, a little out of control. A white Ford van honked and swerved to avoid me.
I took Alondra west over to Long Beach Boulevard and turned north. If my feet hadn’t hurt and the helmet hadn’t been too small, I might’ve even enjoyed the ride.
After years of sitting vacant, the old red-brick Sears had been converted into a daily flea market. Lots of cars cluttered the entrance. Farther out, the parking lot sported cracked asphalt and tall weeds. I parked in the weeds and put the kickstand down. I sat on the bike and waited. My brain wanted to shut down and sleep. I fought the urge.
After ten minutes, a light-blue Chevy lowrider with four Hispanic gangbangers drove through the rear parking lot. I sat on what would be a highly sought-after bike with a brown paper grocery sack filled with fifty thousand dollars on my lap. I must’ve looked like a guy with a dead goat tied around my neck in the county zoo tiger cage.
They gave me the stink eye. I stared them down. They drove on. I gave the odds fifty-fifty that they’d be back. I undid the blue bandana Bobby Ray had tied to the handlebars and tied it around my neck. I pulled it up to cover my mouth. With the helmet, I’d be hard to identify if I had to shoot someone trying to take my lunch money.
A white van with tinted windows pulled up and parked by the cluster of cars. Two minutes later, a white Lexus with limo-tint windows cruised through and went back out onto Long Beach and out of view. Two more minutes and the Lexus pulled in again, this time from the south, and drove right over to me.
No one got out.
From ten feet away, I stared into the reflective windows. The driver’s window came down four inches, not enough to see inside. “Who are you?”
“I’m the guy with the bag of money.”
“That’s not your bike.”
“Give the man a cigar. You want this money or not? I’m not gonna stick around.”
The window went up. The Lexus engine kicked up in RPMs as the air conditioner pulled more juice.
I flipped out the kick-starter and stood to fire up the Harley. The driver shut off the Lexus. The door opened and out stepped a skinny man with ears too large for his elongated head. This wasn’t an ATF agent. I knew this man. John Ahern, AKA “Jumbo,” and he knew me. He hated me, wanted me dead.