DRAGO SHOOK ME awake. The truck door on my side stood open. Drago stood in close. He held on to some long-haired hippy by the scruff of the neck. The guy squeaked a little like a mouse.
“Hey, man,” Drago said, “you all right? You’re droolin’. For a minute there I didn’t think I’d be able to wake ya.”
“Yeah, yeah, I’m good.” I wiped my chin. He’d been right about the deep sleep. I’d dreamt I stood behind the cabana bar in Costa Rica, serving drinks to my regulars. This one seemed so much more real than other dreams, so much detail, right down to the scent of salt air. I’d never smelled anything in a dream before.
And I should’ve felt refreshed after a nap like that, but didn’t. In fact, I just wanted to sleep some more. Sleep forever. Go back to that cabana, where life didn’t have all the pressures.
The hippy didn’t speak. He smelled of nicotine, and his facial skin reflected the damage of a longtime smoker, wrinkled and sallow. His hair needed washing, and he kept it held down with a sixties-style, beaded headband. He sported a raggedy blond goatee and wore a long-sleeve shirt open at the front with a chain and a peace sign medallion.
“Who’s the dude?” I asked.
Drago dipped his shoulder down a little and nodded behind him. “He’s agreed to let us borrow his truck for a few minutes. I told him if he kept his mouth shut, you’d give him a couple hundred bucks.”
“His truck? What are you talking about?” I struggled up to see over his shoulder. We’d parked in a shopping center under a tree, away from all the other cars.
Next to our big GMC sat a smaller Ford Ranger painted all white with a blue business logo that said, “Big John Ahern’s Auto Parts. Big parts without a Jumbo price.”
What a cheesy advertisement. Jumbo had to have thought that one up himself. He had that kind of ego, one even bigger than his ears.
Drago, using his own initiative, had corralled the auto parts delivery guy in the parking lot and made the deal, all while I slept. I really needed to shake off the fatigue or we’d be in trouble.
Drago took hold of my arm and pulled me out of the truck. He shoved the hippy in. When the hippy shuffled by, his body odor all but gagged me and dispelled the final essence of salt air from my dream.
Drago pointed a meaty finger at the guy. “Don’t fuck with the truck. Sit there and be good.”
The hippy showed some balls. He held out a shaky hand and said, “How ’bout my duckets, amigo?”
Drago went to grab a handful of his throat. I put my hand on his shoulder and stopped him. “Here.” I reached in my pocket and took out the roll of hundreds I had taken earlier from Bobby Ray’s bag of money, a habit I didn’t care to curb. I didn’t like Bobby Ray much. I peeled off two hundreds. “You keep your mouth shut and stick to the story that we stole your truck and there’ll be another two hundred in it for you when we get back.”
He took the money and said, “Far out, man.” He pulled a doobie out of his pocket and started to light it up.
“It’s cool, let him do it. Come on. I’ll drive.”
We got in the Ford Ranger, shoulder to shoulder, this truck much smaller than the GMC. I looked around to get oriented. I knew the area that Dan described but didn’t recognize the shopping center we’d parked in. I started up. “Which way?”
“You sure you’re okay to drive?”
“Which way?”
He pointed in a direction I would not have guessed. I headed that way and pulled out onto Martin Luther King Boulevard, which back in the day used to be called Santa Barbara. Now I recognized the area. Two or three years before, though it seemed liked decades ago now, I’d shared an apartment with a beautiful woman named Chantal. She’d given me a cover story for my parole officer, for my “residence of record.” She gave me a place to lay my head while I capered, pulled train heists for Jumbo, and rescued abused children from toxic homes and stashed them with my father while Marie and I prepared to flee to Costa Rica.
Robby Wicks shot and killed Chantal, took my money, and tried to hang her murder on me.
Then, after I helped Dan Chulack take down The Sons of Satan clubhouse, he arranged for the FBI to adopt the Chantal murder investigation. Once he got control of the case, he closed it the way it should’ve been closed, with the killing attributed to the dead Robby Wicks.
The only thing Dan couldn’t suppress were the kidnapping charges for the eight kids, one of which was Wally Kim, the son of a Korean diplomat. Those charges still hung over my head and always would until I was caught and punished.
I spotted Jumbo’s Auto Parts right next to a Rite Aid and Ace Hardware. People walked all around the pharmacy and hardware store. No one came and went from the auto parts store. In the front, by the door, Jumbo employed one of those air machines that blew up and let sag an inflatable man to catch the shopper’s eye. A bright purple man no one could miss.
Big posters on the windows obscured the view to the inside and advertised oil and oil filters on sale, 50 percent off, loss leaders to pull in suckers.
A red and white “closed” sign hung on the glass door, conspicuous and contrary to the posted business hours.
I drove around back without hesitating. I didn’t see any of Dan’s people set up to watch the place. He supervised a talented crew.
In the back, a deep loading dock led to the rear door. I backed in. We got out and went up the concrete steps to the landing.
I stopped at the door and held my finger up, pointing at Drago. I’d taken this move from Marie’s playbook and didn’t like it much when she did it to me, so I dropped it. I put my hand on his shoulder. “Listen, I don’t want you goin’ in here like some kinda Destructo-Man, you understand what I’m sayin’? Just follow my lead and back my play. No independent action. Got it?”
Drago shook his head and put his hand to his chest in mock surprise. “Me? I’m hurt that you’d think such thoughts when all I have is the milk of human kindness running through my veins.”
I chuckled and socked him in the arm. “Come on, Dalai Lama.”
I opened the door to the auto parts store.
Someone stuck a gun to my head and yanked me inside.