David Putnam - The Replacements

I dressed quickly in the dark as the sweat cooled and dried on my skin. I reached over and turned on the bed stand light to see my lovely girl. She stared up at me with adoration, something I couldn’t comprehend. I was nothing special to look at. I didn’t know what I did to deserve her. “I have to get out of here.”

“Where are we going?”

I stopped tying my shoe, reached over and put the back of my hand gently against her cheek. “I have something I have to do.”

She read into my words and sat up, her eyes turning from sated to concerned. “I’m going with you, and you know that.”

I shook my head and looked away.

“Bruno, I didn’t come all this way for you to hide me away in some sleazy motel room. I’m here and I’m going to help.” She held her finger up, “And that’s it, end of discussion.”

“Okay, get dressed.” She jumped up and slid into her clothes almost as fast as she’d taken them off. I watched for the opportunity and stuck the Glock in the back of my waistband when she wasn’t looking.

She had her back to me as she tucked her breasts into her bra and hooked it in the back. “I saw that. Why do we need a gun?” She turned around to look me in the eyes. No one could tell me women didn’t have eyes in the back of their heads. I took the Los Angeles County Sheriff’s badge off the nightstand and hung it around her neck. The gold star hung down over the cleft of her breasts and came off strangely erotic. I put my hands on her shoulders. “You can’t come with me, but I can’t do this thing without your help.”

“Oh, no, I am coming with you.”

She saw the shift in my eyes, held up her finger. “Bruno, no.”

I leaned down and kissed her naked shoulder. She arched her back. I gently turned her around and unhooked her bra. “Bruno, no.” This time, her “no” lost its finality. We commenced to reheat the sheets. Halfway through, she whispered in my ear, “It must be that three-week thing.”

I cut the electrical cords from the lamps in the room, wound them up and shoved them in my pocket, while Marie asked, “Are you sure this is the only way? This idea is really crazy. I mean, really crazy.”

I took her in my arms, kissed the top of her head, and hugged her tight. “We have less than twenty-four hours. Can you think of any other way to get a million dollars? No way is Jonas going to fall for that fake bag trick. He’ll be watching for it. He’s been way out ahead of us every step of the way. Our only chance is for me to show him the money, just a taste, and then I trade the children for the money.”

“I would rather you have the FBI handle it with the fake bag.”

No she didn’t, not really. She wanted the best chance for the children. I pulled her away and looked into her eyes. She nodded as she fumbled with the sheriff’s star hanging around her neck. I let her go with no illusions, maybe for the last time ever, and went out the door to the parking lot, head down under the ball cap, walking fast.

I needed a car, one that fit in with the places I needed to go, and I didn’t have time to be picky. From deep in the parking lot I chose a beat-up, midnight-blue minivan, the model without the side windows. In the dark, the banged-up paint looked black. The door wasn’t locked and the ignition had already been punched. The car had been stolen in the past and the owner, believing the van worthless, had not made the repair. Two seats up front. The back, designed for cargo, was littered with fast food wrappers and empty 40-ounce Olde English 800 beer bottles. The motor coughed and sputtered and finally caught. I headed out of the Fontana Suites parking lot and hoped like hell I would be back.

I drove two long blocks, past an industrial section lit with sodium vapor lights, and turned into another motel parking lot. One built with two stories in an L-configuration. The place used to be part of a major chain and had since fallen into disrepair with a private owner who didn’t believe in maintenance or trash pickup. Every parking stall held a beater car like the one I boosted. The place did a booming business with the speed-freak crowd. I double parked, got out, and walked right to the door I wanted. I stood to the side and checked my watch. Marie and I had synchronized, and the time had started when I kissed her good-bye.

Right now, Marie, with the sheriff’s badge hanging around her neck, would be knocking on Mary Beth’s motel room door. Two minutes for Mary Beth to answer, another three minutes for Marie to explain that she was there to relieve Mary Beth, two more minutes for Mary Beth to grab her things and jam out of there.

Time .

I stepped back and kicked in the door. I ran in. The only light in the dark room spilled in from the parking lot. The beached whale of a man on the swayed bed grunted at the noise from the intrusion, took a half second to realize what had occurred, and reached for a weapon between the mattress. The Viking warrior tattoo stared up at me. I jumped on his back and thumped his melon with the butt of the Glock. No reaction. He came out with a long knife. I hit him two more times. The gun butt thunked hard against bone. Karl Drago went limp. I pulled out the lamp cords and tied his large chubby hands together.

I checked my watch. Thirty seconds. I had allowed three minutes total, just in case Marie had not been able to convince Mary Beth. If Mary Beth had seen me on the screen attacking Karl, she would be here within the three minutes it would take to run out to her car and drive the three blocks.

“Come on, get up. Get up now.”

“Who the hell are you? What the fuck you want?”

I reached over and turned on the lamp. My other adrenaline-shielded senses kicked in. Sour odor of pepperoni and kung pao chicken wafted up from the floor. The room lay to waste, littered with empty pizza and Chinese takeout cartons. Karl Drago lay on the bed more ugly in person than when I had first seen him on the screen in the FBI surveillance room. He squinted, then opened his eyes. “Oh, perfect, I’m being robbed by an Anus Africanus. You made a big mistake, pal, taking down this place. I got nothing. I’m out on parole two weeks now, and I got nothing.”

“Shut your pie hole and stand up.”

“Huh, you have about three minutes, asshole, and then twenty FBI agents are going to swarm in here and shoot your sorry black ass.”

I stopped. He knew about the surveillance. How did he know?

“No, they’re not. I took care of that. Now stand up, or I’ll shoot you in the foot.”

“Kiss my white ass.”

I put the Glock on his foot and looked him in the eyes. “Last chance.”

“Okay, okay, hold it, don’t shoot. Jesus, whatta testy lil’ prick. I’m moving.” He got up, his tattooed belly hanging over his dirty striped boxers. His fat rolled and shifted as he swung his leg in a roundhouse kick.

I blocked it, swung the Glock, and caught him across the temple. He staggered, but didn’t go down. I stuck the gun under his chin and shoved hard.

“Let me make myself clear. I will shoot your sorry ass and leave you for dead if you do not do exactly as I say. Do you understand? Tell me you understand.”

He nodded. Blood ran down into his eye from the laceration to his temple. My mind leapt to previous training about blood-borne pathogens. He’d been in the prison system for going on two decades. He could have hepatitis C or AIDS. Had I still been on the job, protocol would have dictated containment, paramedics, and the donning of rubber gloves and mask. He’d be treated like a hazardous waste dump. No time to ponder over spilt milk. I scooped up his clothes from the pile in the corner. I froze. Underneath sat a black nylon bag with bright white letters: “FBI.” I pointed at the bag and said, “You didn’t?”