Peter Leonard - Trust Me

"And you smoke weed?" the girl said.

Karen wanted to open the door and say by the truckload.

Another voice, a guy's, said, "Got any beer?"

Schreiner said, "I'll fix you right up."

Then they were in the kitchen. Karen could see them, dark shapes through the slats in the door.

"How about some music?" The girl said, "I feel like dancing." She started to mambo, showing some moves, grooving to some tune in her head.

The ceiling lights went back on. Karen could see Schreiner. He was wearing his Make Love Not Law Review tee shirt again, the shirt saying, hey, I'm an attorney, but I'm fun. The refrigerator opened and closed, she heard the clinking of bottles, Schreiner put three Coronas on the counter and popped the tops and let the caps fly, pinging off the counter onto the floor. Schreiner picked the roach up out of the ashtray and lit it with a plastic lighter. He took a long hit, held it in for ten seconds and blew out a cloud of smoke. He handed the roach to the girl. She was wearing a short black skirt and a pink top, and looked about twenty-five.

The girl said, "Is this stuff any good?"

Schreiner said, "Remember Helen Keller? Two tokes, you can't walk, talk or hear."

The guy laughed.

The girl said, "I don't want to get blown away."

Schreiner said, "It's really polio pot, one hit you need a walker."

The guy laughed again, pinched the roach between his thumb and index finger and took a long dramatic pull, sucking in air.

The girl said, "I'm going back to the party."

She walked past the door, heading toward the family room. Schreiner and the guy picked up their beers and went after her. Schreiner said wait, we're coming with you. She heard them walk out of the house and close the door.

Karen stood in the center of Schreiner's two-car garage. There were no cars so it looked big and almost empty. There was a built-in worktable with shelves over it against the south wall. Underneath, a cord of dry aged wood was stacked in rows. On the other side, lawn and gardening tools hung from hooks on a Peg-Board. There were three green trash cans lined in a row next to the door leading to the house. Schreiner had a big green and yellow John Deere riding mower and a red Honda track-drive snowblower and a black Schwinn mountain bike.

Karen, on her knees, cleared a row of stacked aged oak logs, tossing them on the garage floor behind her. She cleared another row and could see the molding around the crawl space. She'd had one just like it at her place down the street. That's where she got the idea. Karen reached in and felt the strap of the Eddie Bauer duffel. She dragged it out and zipped it open on the garage floor, staring at over a million six in banded packs of bills.

O'Clair said, "Know where your sister is?"

"If anybody did I would," Virginia said. "We're close. She'd tell me, but she didn't."

"Ricky hired a couple Iraqi hit men to find her and they will," O'Clair said.

"If you took money from someone like Samir, what would you do?"

"Run like hell," O'Clair said. They were cruising south on Woodward in light traffic, passing storefronts in Ferndale, neon lights ablaze.

"Exactly. That's what Karen's probably doing. I can't help you though."

"You wouldn't be helping me," O'Clair said. "You'd be helping her."

"I can't tell you what I don't know," Virginia said.

"Where would you go?" O'Clair said. "Didn't you say you're a lot alike?"

"I said we're close. You want to know where I'd go? I'd go to Argentina and you'd never find me."

"Why Argentina?"

"I've got a friend who lives in Buenos Aires."

"Is that where your sister's at?"

"I've already told you two times, I don't know."

O'Clair was driving Virginia home from her mother's after hanging around the house, waiting for the police and then talking to two Garden City detectives, telling them what happened, and telling them he had been a Detroit cop for fifteen years, and then telling them about some of his exploits.

When the police had gone, Virginia asked him if he'd give her a ride home. She sat with her body angled on the seat, facing him. He'd been thinking about her since he saw her at the store. She had a nice smile and nice teeth and perfect skin. Get rid of the lip stud and the purple in her hair, she'd be pretty.

"I wish she hadn't shot him," Virginia said. "Fly did a lot of bad things but he didn't deserve that."

O'Clair didn't think it was any great loss to mankind. In a flashback, he recalled the scene: he and Fly had walked in on the little blonde, who was holding down on Virginia and her mother. Fly had approached the girl, who looked like a teenager. She gripped the Colt Python in her hand like she'd never fired a gun in her life.

Fly said, "You better hand that over puss before somebody gets hurt." He figured he could take it from her 'cause she didn't look threatening. He took another step and she shot him point-blank in the chest and he fell backwards and that was it. Fly was gone. O'Clair grabbed the gun from Megan and made her free Virginia and her mom and then sat her on the couch till the police got there. Virginia got on her knees next to Fly and cried for a while.

"Are you okay?" O'Clair said.

Virginia said, "I think so but I don't want to be alone tonight."

O'Clair didn't know if she was coming on to him or not. "You got a friend you can call?"

"Karen used to say 'Gina, you're a magnet for freaks and weirdos. What do you see in Fly?'"

O'Clair wondered if he qualified as one or the other.

"Sorry for hitting you with the skillet," Virginia said. "Is your head okay?"

He had a lump the size of a golf ball on top of his head. "I've got brain damage," O'Clair said. "But with therapy they say I'll be able to live a useful life." He smiled to show her he was kidding.

Now she broke into a grin. "You're not mad?"

O'Clair shook his head. "No."

Virginia said, "Are you sure? Fly would've been pissed."

He turned right on Albany Street and cruised down and took a left in her driveway. He put it in park and looked over at her.

She said, "Want to come in for a beer?"

Tariq was driving the Jaguar well within the speed limit, exercising caution in a stolen automobile. They were on a street called Woodward Avenue, en route to the final address on Ricky's list, and if luck was with them, this is where they would find Karen Delaney and the money.

Omar had his back to him. He was turned in his seat, looking for a street called Albany, which, as Tariq remembered from an American geography course, was also the capital of New York state.

Tariq was more surprised than embarrassed by the strange turn of events. They had Samir's woman. All they had to do was deliver her and collect their money, but now they had nothing. Even the magnificent Cadillac Escalade was gone. Yes, certainly it was a concern. How would he explain this to his uncle?

A more pressing issue, however, was recovering the money. He tried to imagine one million dollars and more than half of that amount again. With this money Tariq could live like a king. He could purchase twenty Escalades. Tariq saw himself wearing expensive clothes from Paris and New York. He saw himself in the company of many beautiful women.

Omar said, "Is Albany. Turn here."

Tariq did, driving slowly, looking for the address Ricky had given to them. According to the numbers the house would be on the left side of the street. There was a car with its lights on parked in a driveway twenty meters ahead. Passing it, Tariq identified the automobile as a Cadillac Seville, 1998 or '99. There was a woman standing at the open front passenger door of the vehicle, talking to someone inside. This was the correct address. The house was dark, no lights.