Don Bruns - Stuff to die for

She paused.

“Are you okay?”

“I’m not feeling that good right now.”

“Em, what’s wrong?” She was strong, never weak. I don’t know that I’d ever seen her really sick.

“A little sick to my stomach.”

“Are you taking anything?”

“No. Nerves I guess. I’ll be all right. Dutch treat tomorrow?”

“No. Fuentes paid us the rest of the money. Actually $3,000. My treat.”

She smiled over the phone. I could tell. “Don’t forget, partner, a third of that is mine.” She hung up.

“I’m going to turn off up ahead and get some oil,” James said. “That light is flickering. All we need to do is throw a rod.”

“Do you know what that means, throw a rod?”

He looked at me with a sneer. “No.”

He pulled off at a gas station and got out of the cab. Hundreds of black bugs swarmed around the yellow glow from the light fixtures above the gas pumps. Catching a glimpse of a car in my peripheral vision, I spun around. No rear window. It must have pulled in behind us. I thought it was blue and big and the brief look I got made me think it might be the Buick.

James sauntered out of the garishly lighted gas station/carryout with a can of oil in his hand, popped the hood, and proceeded to drain the contents into the engine. I got out and looked behind us. No Buick.

We got back in and James pulled back out onto I-95.

“I think that man has problems we can’t imagine. He doesn’t know where his son is, only that he’s been injured. He can’t be honest with his investors because if he tells them the truth the people behind Cafe Cubana will send his son home in a body bag.”

I looked out the side mirror and saw lights coming up behind us. Traffic was light, but this guy was hell-bent for leather, pulling alongside of us on the outside line. James glanced over and hit the brakes hard.

My mother harped on wearing a seat belt. Every time I left the house-“Don’t forget to wear your seat belt!” I didn’t pay a lot of attention to my mother. I bounced from the seat and cracked my chin on the dashboard as James skidded to a stop on the berm.

“What the hell was that all about? What?” I rubbed my chin, gingerly feeling what was going to be a nasty bruise. “Damn it, James.”

“Son of a bitch had a gun aimed at my head and I swear he fired it, Skip. It was our big-mouthed buddy in the Buick. That’s about as close to death as I think I’ve come.”

Up ahead, a pair of brake lights came on and the car swerved onto the berm. I sat there rubbing my chin as the car ahead shifted into reverse and hit the gas. The big automobile was barreling backward, the rear end swerving back and forth like a fish’s tail.

“Jesus! He’s going to ram the truck.”

“I think it’s us he wants to ram, James. The truck just happens to be in the way.” I was shouting and not sure why.

James stepped on the gas and we pulled out onto the highway. We passed the blue demon going forty-five miles an hour. The Buick braked again and reversed motion, chasing us at an alarming speed.

“James, we can’t outrun that son of a bitch.”

“I know.”

“Bump him.”

“What?” James shrieked.

Now the Buick was three car lengths back, and with my window down I could hear the roar of its engine.

“Bump him!”

“What about the truck.”

“Fuck the truck. Think about our lives.” Now I knew why I was shouting.

The big blue machine came whining up to the driver’s side and when I leaned forward and looked out James’s window, I could see Big Mouth taunting us with the gun. With his good hand he waived the pistol as they pulled even.

James jerked the steering wheel hard. He grimaced as he gave it a vicious twist to the left and for a moment I thought the truck was going to go over. Then I heard the crunch of metal-on-metal.

The crunch, then the shrill scraping sound and sparks flew from the friction. James hung in there, straightening the wheel then spinning it again, pounding the car next to us, again, and again. Finally he spun it to the right and straightened it out one last time, punching the accelerator and heading down the highway.

“What?” I was still screaming and I couldn’t see a damn thing. My side mirror showed nothing and with no rear window-which was the reason we were in this situation-I had no idea what had happened.

“Don’t talk to me about it, Skip. I don’t even want to discuss it until I see how much damage I just did to the truck.”

We pulled over two exits later and got out in a deserted shopping center parking lot. Surprisingly, the body damage wasn’t terrible. Oh, it was crumpled in spots and the dark blue from the Buick streaked across the white body like war paint, but with my limited knowledge of bodywork, I figured it could be fixed for minimal dollars. I was certain all three of us would have to put money from our profits into the repairs.

James kept pacing, looking at the side and saying, “Damn. Damn. Damn. Damn.”

“We’ll get it fixed. You saved our lives, man.”

“You were right, Skip. Angel should have blown Big Mouth’s punk ass away. These guys are bad news.”

“Where are they?”

“The last time I hit them, their car rolled. Last thing I saw, it was upside down. It will take a tow truck to get them out of the median.”

“Well, we’re still in one piece.”

“Skip, what the hell do they want with us? Do we know something? Do they think we still have the mail. Shit, they know we were visiting Fuentes. They must assume we gave him the mail.”

“But we didn’t give him all of the mail, did we?”

He gave me a funny look. “How the hell would they know that?”

I walked back, surveying the truck all the way to the rear. “Hey, pal. Check this out.”

He walked back and ran his finger over the hole. “Son of a bitch. They did shoot at us. What the hell do we do now? What do we do now?”

WE pulled into gas and grocery, closed at this late hour. A musty pine scent hung in the air.

“Just because we see him here during the day doesn’t mean he-” Angel just kind of appeared, out of the dark, walking up to the truck and resting his elbows on the driver’s door with its open window.

“My friends.”

“Angel, I’ve got some good news.” James smiled.

“The man wasn’t killed.”

“How did you know that?”

“Because I shot him in the shoulder. I was fairly certain his friend would take care of him. I may have done some serious damage, but I never believed he was dead.”

James sputtered for a few seconds. “Well, then why did you let us believe that he was-”

“People will believe what they want to believe. I have strong feelings for people with belief. But the final proof is in the beholding.”

I leaned over. “Who’s quote is that?”

“Mine.”

“They tried to kill James and me tonight on the highway.”

He surveyed the truck in the dim light. “They don’t appear to have been successful.”

James stared mournfully at the truck. “We just wanted you to know.”

Angel nodded. “Leave the truck with me.”

“With you?” James stepped back.

“With me. If they come to your apartment and the truck is there, they know you’re home. They may try to finish the job. If it’s not there, they assume you’re somewhere else.”

I looked at James and he shrugged his shoulders. “Do you think they’ll come after us tonight?”

“I’d like to think they’re somewhere licking their wounds,” James said.

“But they may be looking for us.”

“True. What the hell.”

It made sense. At twelve thirty in the morning, it made sense. Angel drove us back to the apartment, past the rows of faded concrete block houses and sparse brown, postage stamp-sized lawns, and we tumbled into bed. I slept a dreamless sleep, but woke with a sense of dread.