at the desk let me see the register this afternoon. It was the only California plate, I wrote down the room number.”
My blood began to boil as my stomach fell down to my shoes. How could I have been so stupid? I didn’t use my real name, lied about my address- I always use the address of Burbank Studios, but my damned plate number, I wrote it out without even thinking of it. Damn!
They walked off in the direction of my ride. When their steps passed out of earshot, I rolled out from under the truck and sneaked up about fifteen or twenty cars and hunkered between two making a quick peek before darting across the open aisle way. I was able to sneak within fifty feet of my car, and the two mugs who were casing it out.
They walked around my ride a couple of times, trying the doors, and the trunk. Of course I’d locked the doors, so they weren’t getting in that way. They appeared to be stifled. Try as I might, I couldn’t hear them talking because of the damned traffic, but it was evident something was going on.
Just then the tall thin one turned in my direction and started coming my way.
I panicked, swallowed hard and looked around. He didn’t see me yet, so I receded between the cars and slipped underneath a rusty old Bellaire. I barely got out of sight in time. He passed right in front of me, close enough that I could have reached out and tripped him.
After a few minutes, he returned driving a small panel van with NATURE GROWN BAKERY logo painted on the side. The van pulled up in front of my Hudson, stopped, pulled forward, angled to the far side of the aisle.
When the van pulled up, I saw the passenger door was open. I was steamed, but I didn’t move. I thought for a moment that the thick one had seen me, I mean he looked right at me, but he didn’t act on it if he did see me.
The van backed up until the rear door was even with the opened passenger door of my ride. A minute later, the thick one joined the tall one and they slid the back door up and hauled out a bundle of canvas and gingerly stuffed it into my car.
Only one thing came to mind that was worth a twenty two hundred mile trip.
Jack Benson.
Christ on a crotch rocket.
The thick one took another look around and closed the door. He lingered a minute and stared at the Bellaire I was hiding under.
“You go on, I gotta check on something,” The thick one growled.
“Okay Tony, when I get done I’ll park the truck and meet you back at our room,” the tall one remarked.
“You sure you can handle it?”
“Yeah, it ain’t no problem.”
A moment later the van pulled away and I was on the move. By the time Tony got to the Bellaire, I was two cars away, a bit closer to my ride. The shell game wouldn’t last forever; I had to keep moving otherwise I might be joining Jack.
When I’d reached the end of the row of cars, I listened for footsteps and didn’t hear any, so I slid out and peered down the aisle. I didn’t see anyone so I crept across the aisle and hunkered low against the end car and listened. I didn’t hear footsteps, but I did hear the door rolling up on the van. I sneaked as close as I dared and hid in the shadows and shrubbery not twenty feet from the van, which was backed up in front of my room.
In the meantime, I watched Tony cross the far end of the lot headed toward the front.
I heard the door of my room shut and the tall one appeared. He pulled down the door of the van and pulled away. I watched him drive to the far side of the lot, near my ride and pull into a space. I couldn’t hear over the din of the traffic, but I saw his head pass the rear of the van.
I waited a minute more and watched the tall one make his way to the sidewalk and disappear toward the front of the hotel.
I checked my pocket for my key and went to the door of my room and tried the knob it was unlocked. I went inside and closed the door. I assumed these two were looking to set me up or they’d have forced their way in to my room and let me have it without all this sneaky business.
I heard the water running in the bathroom.
The tub was near full and something wrapped in a sheet was thrashing violently. I reached in and out, splashing water. I tore at the bungee cord wrapped around the shoulder but it wouldn’t budge.
Whoever it was sputtering and gurgling, drowning right in front of me. As the bundle convulsed I looked around, toilet, sink, mirror..
Mirror!
I grabbed last night’s towel off the rack and hung it over my fist. I slammed my fist into the mirror with all I had and broke it into several pieces. I grabbed a shard with the towel, grabbed a handful of the sheet and tore the sheet wide open. Pam sputtered and gasped. I hauled her upright, wrapping my arms around her as she collapsed, I forced my fist violently against her abdomen, causing her to belch out a quart of water. This time her cough and sputter was followed by a gasp of air. She breathed deeply and then vomited down her front. I steadied her as she leaned forward, leaning against the wall.
She turned to me and smiled. I tore the sheet a bit more and she stepped out of it, being careful to avoid the vomit collected on it.
She was still wearing my shirt and not a stitch more, I guess she left for Champion City not long after I did, only she made the trip tied up in the back of a van next to a dead guy.
Suddenly I came to my senses and looked around. The place was a wreck. Not to mention that the cops could knock any minute and ask me about the dead guy in my car.
“C’mon we gotta go,” I said, urging her toward the main room.
“I can’t go like this,” she gestured to the soaking wet shirt, which stuck to her clammy skin.
“Yeah, right,” I handed her a towel. I went to my bag and pulled out a pair of grey sweat pants and a blue sweatshirt.
It was all too big, but with the draw string and some female engineering, she managed to look like a real cupcake. She pulled on a pair of my sweat socks and stuffed toilet paper into the toes of my tennis shoes and tied them up. She finished it off by pulling her hair back and tying it with a clean handkerchief. In less than a minute, she looked good..
We got everything together and laid the key on the table. She carried my bag and I had my Roscoe ready. I opened the door, half expecting the parking lot to be filled with red and blue lights flashing the go sign for a bunch of cops to bum rush us. It was all clear, so we heeled it out of there.
We hurried across the lot to the van, parked two spaces away from my ride. I pulled a pair of socks from my bag and pulled them onto my hands. I went to the rear of the van and pushed up the door.
In the dim light I could see a bunch of power tools and rolled tarps. Closest to the door, was a large canvas bag with a leather cinch and heavy duty zipper. I knew exactly what that was- the loot that had cost Jack Benson his life.
I grabbed it and went to the Hudson. Pam followed me, dazed. She held my bag and watched as I opened the passenger door, throw the bank bag over Jack’s body and into the back seat. I thought she was gonna toss her cookies again when I hauled him out, but she just tested the seat to see if it was dry and got in while I dragged Jack over to the van and tossed him in. After I pulled down the door of the van, I stared at the license plate long enough to commit it to memory.
I got in my ride and started it up. I drove out of there, slow and quiet, so not to draw attention to us. I pulled into the gas station next door and went to the payphone.
Slowly I dialed.
“Champion City Police,” said a mechanically effeminate voice on the line.
“Yeah, I was getting gas here at the Fuel Spot, next to the Motorway Inn, and I saw this big thick lookin’ guy and this other tall skinny guy knocking some guy around and they stuffed him in the back of a van with some kind of bakery ad on it,” I said it kind of nervous, which wasn’t much of a stretch, “I don’t know what’s going on, but my girlfriend insisted I call the police.”
“Motorway Inn. I’m going to send someone out there. What’s your name sir?”
I hung up the phone, pulled the socks off my hands and tossed them in the b
ack when I got in the car and we motored out of there and headed south.
You have just finished reading
HARD UP!
by J. Walt Layne
This story is part of the Single Shots Signature Series.
Edited by Nikki Nelson-Hicks
Editor in Chief, Pro Se Productions-Tommy Hancock
Director of Corporate Operations-Morgan McKay
Publisher & Pro Se Productions, LLC-Chief Executive Officer-Fuller Bumpers
Cover Art by Jeff Hayes
E-book Design by Russ Anderson
Pro Se Productions, LLC
133 1/2 Broad Street
Batesville, AR, 72501
870-834-4022
[email protected] (mailto:
[email protected])
https://www.prose-press.com
Thank you for reading books on BookFrom.Net Share this book with friends