Chapter 41 Rust
RUST
The wig cap compresses my skull. I can feel a tension headache coming on. Yeah, this thing is definitely Tally-sized.
Blinking through a curtain of shaggy blond hair, I survey the second floor of the Desert Vista Mall and nod my chin to instrumental pop music.
Shoppers stroll past windows. Kids munch on pretzels and laugh at a wacky waving inflatable arm-flailing tube man in front of a sporting goods store.
A dad with dark bags under his eyes and a sleepy baby strapped to his chest tries to lure his crying toddler away from a coin-operated kiddie carousel.
Teens hang around the entrance to the food court. They hold up their phones, clucking mockingly as they record a guy wearing the lower half of a turkey costume and offering meatball samples on toothpicks. It does look funny. Sorta like a merman but if mermen were half poultry, half human.
Other than these suburban mall shenanigans, nobody stands out.
Except for an overzealous saleslady patrolling outside a department store with a perfume bottle.
She lunges, desperately trying to spray unsuspecting shoppers with a new fragrance.
Poor thing must be on commission. She almost got me, too, but I dodged the sandalwood and lime-scented mist like Neo in The Matrix. Well, maybe not as dynamically.
At exactly two minutes to twelve, the elevator doors across the walkway open. Tally steps out, holding a greasy paper bag from the burger joint where we bought food last night.
My heart flip-flops in my chest.
Last night. Oh Lord, last night…
I can’t believe she fell back in love with me!
Frankly, I got no clue how my stupid ass managed to make her like me again and throw her friends-with-benefits rule out the window. I’m still half expecting her to take it all back. That makes me nervous as hell.
We didn’t talk about our future or what our confessions meant. What if she mistook the adrenaline from the crimes and the blackmail for love and once it’s all over her feelings will vanish?
No point worrying for now. First, I gotta take care of the asshole extorting my wife. That requires my full focus.
I pat my pocket where I carry her wedding ring in a zipper compartment of my wallet. Then I’ll figure out how to get that ring back on her finger.
Tally scans the area. Her eyes gloss over me to not arouse suspicion, but her lips twist into a smile.
She giggles through the earbud in my left ear. “Your new look is very… adventurous.”
“Didn’t you insist on radio silence? You’re just jealous cause blondes have more fun,” I snark.
“Jealous? You look like a scarecrow joined a 70s glam rock revival band.”
“I thought you wanted to be on a call to calm your anxiety, not make fun of my disguise!”
“That’s not a disguise. It’s a crime against fashion, Rust.”
I huff. “You’re the one who got overly excited with them dollar store scissors! I told you I don’t have the right face shape for bangs!”
“Well, I ain’t a hairstylist! It was the big chop or blond hair to your ass. What’s next, complainin’ about the artificial mall light washin’ out your tan? I think I liked you better as a brunette anyway.” Tally chokes down a laugh. “Okay, seriously now. Do you see the drop-off location?”
“Yeah, and unless our blackmailer is a mom with a stroller, he ain’t nowhere close. You’re good to go.”
Tally walks toward the trash can. She lingers, scrunching the top of the bag tighter before dropping it in and turning around. Her shoulders tense as she approaches the crowded escalator and rides it downstairs.
A heavy sigh filters through the earbud. “I’ll wait by the truck. But Rust, I’m scared. What if it doesn’t work?”
It kills me that I can’t hug her and comfort her right now. “Trust me. I’ll handle it.”
She sniffles. “Okay. Be careful. I need you back in one piece.”
“I’ll always come back to you, Trouble.”
She hangs up and I pretend to scroll on my phone while I watch the trash can. The minutes pass. Five past twelve. Then ten. More people stream toward the food court to grab lunch, making it harder and harder to see.
My hackles rise when a wiry, small figure steps from the crowd.
A flat cap shadows the man’s features. With a rolled-up paper under his arm and a large messenger bag over his shoulder, he looks like an overgrown newspaper boy. Casually, he walks up to the trash can.
My jaw drops in horror.
Crocs. He’s wearing Crocs—in sport mode.
Wow. That can’t be the guy extorting Tally for a million dollars, right?
The stranger drops the magazine in the trash and takes out the bag, looking inside.
Oh, it is him.
That’s… almost disappointing?
I push off the wall and pocket my phone, sauntering toward him. This’ll be easy as pie. The guy seems like a wimp. If he doesn’t come with me peacefully, I have to avoid drawing innocent bystanders into the mess. That’ll be the biggest problem.
The dad with the two children walks away from the kiddie carousel and toward me. I slow down, not wanting to drag him into my business. The tiny baby in his carrier is fast asleep and his other kid rides on his shoulders.
The little boy grins at me, babbling. I’m not the best with kids, but I smile back. Only a monster wouldn’t.
The criminal in Crocs hasn’t noticed me yet. He’s mesmerized by the contents of the bag, which actually consists of a single layer of fifty-dollar bills and cut-up copies of ‘Gossip Grove’ underneath.
I’ll wait until the fella with his kids has gone, then a few steps more and I’ll grab the blackmailer by the scruff. The toddler squeals as his father walks by. A gust of cool air from the AC brushes over my head.
Oh, that feels good.
I run a hand through my hair and freeze.
Where the fuck is the wig?
I spin around, seeing the toddler wave at me with a blond mop of hair. His dad hasn’t noticed anything and steps into the elevator, the doors closing slowly.
I turn to the blackmailer. He’s staring at me. Horrified. Mouth open. He looks how I must’ve looked when I saw his Crocs.
Shit. My cover has been blown.
Huh, that mole by his right nostril rings a bell. And then the Crocs, too… Wait, this is the slimy asshole who harassed Tally at the ‘Bottles & Boots’ in Pine Bluff!
The guy jerks, twists, and starts running. I bolt after him. For a small guy in his late 40s, he’s surprisingly quick, weaving through shoppers like an obstacle course.
I’m a few steps behind. Heart pounding, I stretch out my arm, my fingers brushing the fabric of his shirt. He takes a sharp turn around a stall selling pretzels and I’m too slow to react.
I run straight, trying to cut him off when a lady with a stroller comes out of a toy store to my right. Cursing, I swerve, narrowly avoiding a crash. The woman shrieks and I shout a breathless apology.
Fuck, the asshole is getting away!
Suddenly, the saleslady jumps out of the department store, brandishing the perfume bottle like a loaded gun. “Sporty Man, the new fragrance by Lager Karlfeld!” she shouts enthusiastically and presses the plunger rapidly—right as the blackmailer runs past her.
“Ah! My eyes!” he howls and starts coughing.
I vow to come back later and buy a bottle of perfume from this lady cause her aim is seriously impressive.
Rubbing his eyes, the man stumbles too close to the sporting goods store. The wacky waving inflatable arm-flailing tube man smacks him right in the face and knocks off his flat cap. Parents gasp and cover their kids’ ears as he yells something decidedly not PG-13.
He is fast—but he’s also kinda bad at this. His ability to keep a hold of the fake money bag should be noted, though.
Head swiveling, he veers into the crowded food court. To follow, I have to jump over a toddler smearing strawberry ice cream on the ground like finger paint.
Fuck, this is unbelievable! It’s as if the whole mall is conspiring against me. Am I unknowingly starring in an action comedy and all these people are paid actors hired to sabotage me?
At least the teens with their phone cameras have gone, but turkey man is offering a new batch of samples on a silver tray.
I fear I’m too far behind to catch up to the blackmailer. But then, as if by divine intervention, he is struck down.
His Crocs in sport mode can’t save him as he slips on something. My bet is spilled salad dressing from the nearby buffet. Like a screaming human bowling ball on two legs, he hurtles forward at a breakneck speed.
Turkey man tries to dodge him.
Emphasis on tries.
The men collide like two cars on black ice. It’s a full frontal crash with absolutely devastating results.
Turkey guy tumbles to the ground while the world’s worst blackmailer somehow manages to stay on his feet. It’s almost theatrical. Elegant. His waving arms. The involuntary pirouette.
But his balance comes at a painful price.
He lets out a blood-curdling scream as he touches his tomato-sauced chest. A dozen or so toothpicks stick from it, with the meatballs still on them. But he limps onward. His commitment to escape is unbroken, even with a twisted ankle and free lunch embedded in his flesh.
I apologize profusely as I weave through a family carrying food trays. For good measure, I throw a smile and an ‘Enjoy your meal!’ their way. I’m gaining on the blackmailer, but he reaches the foodcourt exit before me.
He hobbles into the elevator and slams his fist into the button panel. The doors close at a snail’s pace. His chest heaves as he mashes the buttons repeatedly.
I slow to a provocative stroll.
He’s trapped. Even if he makes a break for it now, he can’t escape fast enough with his ankle and the escalator is too crowded.
The elevator doors are about to close. He smirks triumphantly and shakes the paper bag at me—right as I put my foot in the door. The safety alarm dings and it opens again.
I grin. “Howdy.”
All color drains from his face as I step into the elevator.
“So much for the boomerang bit, buddy. If I could give you some advice, I’d look for another job. You’re the worst at this.”
“I’m usually more of a behind-the-scenes and in-the-shadows kind of guy,” he grumbles.
I press the ground floor button. The elevator doors close before it starts moving down. The man winces as I pluck a meatball from his chest and put it in my mouth.
“Hmm, these are pretty good. Tender with a tangy, slightly sweet tomato sauce.” I take another and offer it to him. “Wanna try?”
He doesn’t find it the least bit funny. I do, though, smirking as I chew. My foot taps in rhythm with ‘The Girl From Ipanema’ coming from crackling speakers.
“What are you going to do to me?” he asks.
“Ain’t decided yet. If I had my way, I’d put a bullet in your head as soon as we’re outta here, but it’s up to Tally. You better try to get in her good graces.”
A shiver runs through him. “Any chance you’ll let me go if I give you half of the cash in this bag?” He makes the creepiest attempt at puppy dog eyes. It makes him look like a serial killer with rabies who should be wearing a muzzle cause he likes to bite.
“You didn’t take a proper look in that bag, did ya?” I ask.
He opens the paper bag and lifts the bills on top, pulling out the shredded copies of ‘Gossip Grove.’
“Foiled by my own articles?” he asks, disbelief thick in his voice as he stares at the piece about Tally’s canceled tour.
The elevator dings and the doors open, but my body goes rigid as my head whips around.
“You are Night Wolfe?” I grit out.