11. Crash
ELEVEN
CRASH
The first sensation is of cold concrete. The second is pain. Like iron nails driving through my skull. Barely, I’m still breathing. All systems failing. I couldn’t move an inch if I was on fire.
I struggle through the sludge of consciousness. I don’t know this place. Animal panic; instinct; suppress. Am I captured? Remain calm. Fading… I’m lying on the floor. Three strong walls. Bars break up the wall in front of me.
There’s an overwhelming odor of ass.
Jail.
I’m in jail.
“Bear up, soldier,” comes a sardonic voice to my right.
English. Thank God.
I try to move, but it’s impossible.
“HEY!”
After that ear-splitting roar is the sound of a metal clanging on metal. My cellmate is shaking the bars. Agony bursts through my skull and I make my first motion which is to curl up in a ball. I’ve never felt so shot, not even with a back full of shrapnel. My skull is on fire.
“HEY! He needs a doctor,” the voice hollers.
“No can do,” comes the answer. “You know the rules, Red. No doctors.”
“Motherfucker, he’s bleeding everywhere.”
“Well what do you want me to do about it?” the sullen voice complains. “Zip it, Red, before I get the cattle prod again.”
I dig my fingernails into the floor, the adrenaline rousing me. An old army trick. I dig until my fingertips are slick with blood and I feel my heart get to beating again. I make two fists and push myself upright, slowly, slowly….
Bright lights swim across my vision. My body is on fire. My head fucking hurts.
Am I dying?
Head Trauma.
With all the strength I have left I raise my right hand and touch my scalp.
FUCK.
That hurts. Christ.
My hair’s matted with blood, my scalp is in bad shape, and all of it burns like the flames of hell.
And I’m in jail.
Awake, alive. Think. Think through the pain.
My cellmate says, “This isn’t how I thought we’d meet.”
I force my eyes to focus, blinking through my failing vision. Blood loss.
Who the fuck–
He looks like an evil fucking fox. His red hair glows bright as hellfire under the jail lights, and his green eyes dance with what I know to be insanity. He’s even larger than I thought — a freak of nature like me. Well, we are technically related, that same festering lineage coursing through our veins.
“McCall,” I rasp.
“Crash.”
“Where are we?”
“Tippalonga Jail,” he tells me. “What are the odds us Virginia boys get locked up together?”
He stands up and I tense. I’m no match for him right now. McCall crosses the cell and sits next to me, stretching his long legs out. His jeans are ripped and stained. Bloodstains. His boots are the same, hanging open with no laces. His hands are mottled with ugly bruises, the skin shredded.
“Did you…did you put me in here?” I heave. The words are coming easier now.
“Didn’t have the pleasure,” McCall answers dryly. “I heard they found you passed out somewhere. Apparently you got raked across the head by some large feathered animal.” He shrugs. “Just what I heard.”
“And…you?”
He smiles. “Got in a fight.”
“You almost killed my cousin.”
“Who’s your cousin?”
“Mully Walker.”
The silence passes. I can’t be dying. This can’t be it. For Christ’s sake… Large feathered animal?
“He needs a doctor,” McCall calls out to the guard.
“No can do,” replies the same jolly, stupid voice.
“Fucker. You got a needle and thread?”
“Be quiet, Red.”
“You got liquor?”
“Not for you.”
“I’ll give you fifty dollars,” McCall says.
“And where would you get fifty dollars, Red? I took everything off you.”
“My wife’s coming. She’ll give it to you. You saw what I was walking with, you know I’m good for it.”
His wife…That was his wife and kid.
Roman never told me. The bastard. He wanted me to just handle it.
“Believe it when I see it,” the jailer snorts. “I’ve heard it all, boy, so just you be quiet.”
“If he dies in here it’s on you,” McCall says.
The jailer laughs. It sounds like he’s chewing on something— probably a donut.
“If he dies in here they might give me a raise. That’s the punk that stole Reverend Wilson’s wife.”
“Shut up,” I tell McCall, lest the bastard talk the other bastard into killing me for some perceived reward.
The irony.
“Have a heart. He’s got a family.”
He turns to me and I see a surprising glint of humor. “You do have a family, right?”
I give him the thumbs up.
“HEY! HEY! HEY!” McCall roars.
The jailer stamps up to the bars and tosses something through. “That’ll fucking cost you. Now shut the fuck up!”
I lay there like a whipped dog while McCall picks up what’s scattered all over the floor, which sounds like little pins.
“You got to stitch that head up,” he says to me. “It’s fucked.”
“Don’t touch…me.”
“We have to talk, man.”
“Talk,” I grunt, eyes still shut. “Ain’t like…going anywhere.”
“How much is Roman paying you?” McCall asks, sitting next to me again. His voice lowers. “We can work something out. Otherwise I’ll have to let you die.”
“Ha.”
“Try me.”
“Half.”
“Smart. I would have offered the same. But he’s lying.”
“You…think?” Roman would sooner chew his arm off than give a grunt like me half the family gold. But he isn’t unreasonable —I’d still be rewarded handsomely. “I know…Roman. Snake. Even a fifth… better than nothing.”
“He’s got something on you?” McCall asks shrewdly. “You owe him a favor?”
“Dirty…politics. Stay out.” I’m fading. “Don’t do McCalls…no favor.”
“So it’s the money. Look, if we both get out of here in favorable circumstances, maybe we can work something out.”
If this is to be my last hour on earth, I’d prefer to think of other things than Roman and his gold.
“You’re the one Roman calls for the clean job.” McCall keeps on yammering. “I’ve heard of you. Ex-military. Fearless. You always get your man.”
“And you — criminal.”
“I beat up your cousin Mully ‘cause I thought he raped my sister. It was a mistake and I did time for it,” he says firmly. “Ask Mully — we squashed it. Now hey, look, I’m trying to save your hide when I could just kill you and keep the whole pile.”
McCall shakes me by the shoulder, sending more bolts of agony through my skull. “Hey, stay with me.”
“Talk…”
McCall gets up again and shouts at the jailer, “You have whiskey?”
“Go to hell, Virginia. I gave you the needles, what more do you want?”
“Aye,” comes another voice from a different cell, a voice of authority. “Give Red something to drink.”
“You stay the hell out of this, Crocodile,” the jailer replies with less heat than before. “This don’t concern you. I already gave you two free phone calls.”
“And you ruined my vest with your greasy fingers. That shit was dupioni silk! Give that redneck some Tippalonga hospitality right now and don’t piss me off.”
“How many?” I ask McCall, only to keep myself talking.
“Just us three,” he answers. “That man Crocodile — he’s a pimp. Gets his own cell, ain’t that nice?”
“What about him?” I ask, meaning the jailer.
“He’s the only one working here,” McCall says. “That’s good. Real good.”
Is the lunatic actually thinking of busting out of here?
The jailer comes up to our cell. The man is what I expected. Soft, pudgy, pink, weak. I could take fifteen of him any day, but right now he could kick my sorry ass with his hands tied.
“Here,” he says, thrusting something through the bars at McCall. It’s a half-full bottle of something clear. My stomach clenches.
“Thank —- ARGH! Motherfucker!” McCall nearly doubles over. The jailer withdraws the cattle prod, eyes shining with cruel glee. “You’re welcome, Virginia. How much will your wife pay me for that?”
Those piggy eyes turn to me. Just a dumb brute, doing a job he hates.
“You might wish you were dead before the Reverend gets here. He’s gonna fry you like a hushpuppy.” Chuckling, the goblin slouches back behind the wall, out of view.
McCall passes the hard-won bottle under his nose for inspection, then lurches over to me.
Fuck that. I get up and manage to catch his arm. He throws me off easily, turns me by the shoulder. “Remember I did this,” he says, and pours the contents of the bottle over the side of my head.
A bone-melting burn. Like acid.
As I gain consciousness a second time it seems my strength restores faster than before. And I must be hearing things, because the woman talking sounds a hell of a lot like Trina. Because the desk is behind the wall we can’t see a thing, but those dulcet tones could only be hers.
“Let him out of there right now! He didn’t do anything wrong!”
“I think not, Miss Whiteleaf,” comes the snide reply. “I have explicit orders to keep your lover in confinement from the Judge himself. Mister Walker is confined for the assault and injury of our beloved Reverend. Who, by the way, is on his way back from a golf tournament and would very much like to speak to you.”
“What is Mister Walker’s bail?” Comes a different female voice that seems to generate a sudden rapid movement from my cellmate.
“A million billion dollars,” says the jailer. “Or thirty minutes of your time, sugar.”
“Very funny,” the other woman replies.
“Well, both of you need to fill out this paperwork before anybody goes anywhere.”
“This is like ten pages!”
“Rules are rules, ladies.”
McCall leans against the bars, his gaze fixed intently on the direction of the voices. I put out my hand. “Hey.”
He crosses the cell and pulls me to my feet...
Bad. Oooooh, doggies. I clutch my head like a teenager gone three sheets to the wind at a country dance. My skin burns but my bones are ice cold. McCall’s ugly mug doubles and triples before me in time with the deep throb in my skull.
Infection.
“You should really get that looked at,” McCall tells me, tapping his own head where mine hurts the fiercest. “And if you make it out of here remember I did my part for your sorry hide.”
“Motherfucker—”
“Tell Roman I drove off a bridge with the gold,” McCall says quickly. “Or I had it stolen. You’ll get your share. All you have to do is make it look convincing.”
“I gave him my word to bring you down.”
Out front there’s the sound of a cash register opening and both women talking at once. I realize this might be the last time I can speak openly with McCall.
“You betrayed Roman,” I tell him. “I know he’s a son of a bitch but he took you in after you got out of jail, gave you work and steady pay. I heard he even paid the taxes on your house while you were locked up, which was more than you deserved for crippling my cousin.”
“Roman McCall isn’t the hero you think,” McCall says, smiling grimly. “But what you need to be concerned with isn’t Roman at all. It’s what’s watching him through the trees. Get me?”
“I don’t keep up with mountain politics.”
“Well then you wouldn’t know that there’s been Feds lurking around ever since Duke McCall got shot. And who do you think they’re studying? It ain’t Bubba and Larry and Joe. The Boss knows you stay out of our business. You do your own thing. You don’t know what’s bubbling around Florin. He betted on you being the only one fool enough to go after me. He’s paying you from the gold, I suppose.”
I hesitate. “Yes.”
“Untraceable. Feds won’t know. Of course, if you try to sell it…That’s another story. Quite possibly with charges attached.” His eyes narrow. “I give you clean gold. A small share. Nobody has to get hurt. Or you take Roman’s dirty money and go down with the ship.”
“Motherfucker, how do I know you ain’t lying?”
“Because I haven’t killed you,” says McCall bluntly. “But that fever will if you don’t get medicine. So maybe I ought not to waste my time.”
I touch the throbbing bulb of pain at the back of my head. It’s no longer crusted with blood. A tidy line of stitches marches under my fingertips.
“Why do this?” I demand.
“We might stand on the other side of things but I don’t have personal beef with you,” McCall shrugs.
I study his face for any tics, any indication he’s lying. But he’s good. Too good. “That’s really your reason?”
“Really,” he says.
“You might have more in common with Roman than you thought,” I grunt. “He could have sent an assassin instead of me.”
“I wonder why he didn’t. Dee should be finished with that paperwork. This is your last chance.”
“I can’t trust a man who would betray his own kin.”
“So be it,” he says.
And there it ends. He leans against the bars, waiting for his ticket. His sense of timing is good because footsteps kick up from the front, and the jangling of keys.
Your husband has a real bad attitude, you know?” The jailer whines. “He should work on that.”
“I’ll let him know,” says McCall’s woman. “Can’t you do anything for her ?” She means Trina.
Did they come here together?
“No, Ma’am. The Whiteleaf girl and her lover are wanted locally. All your husband did was get in an imbroglio with the White Defenders, which has happened to all of us at some point or another.”
“So why did you arrest him? I told you he did nothing wrong!”
“Dee,” Sebastian calls suddenly. “Dee, please get me out of here before you start defending me.”
The jailer stomps over to our cell. “Back on the wall, both of you!” He commands.
I don’t have to move, but McCall backs up obediently. Using an old-time iron key the jailer cranks the lock open. The last time they renovated this jail must have been when Jesse James was still holding up stagecoaches.
The door opens. The jailer flinches back from McCall but the redheaded bastard just walks out and turns the corner without a backward glance. I don’t even bother rushing the door; I’d never get there in time.
With a smirk at me the jailer turns to follow McCall. As soon as the pissant turns out of sight I hear a yelp and the sound of something heavy hitting the floor.
“SEBASTIAN!”
McCall and his woman start arguing heatedly.
“Trina,” I call.
You imagined it. It wasn’t her.
But then I hear, “ Crash !”
Trina sprints round the corner. She’s holding my duffel bag, and, amazingly, the jailer’s keys. She stops dead in front the cell, her face contorting in horror. “Crash! What happened ?”
“That bad?” I grunt.
“You look terrible. Stand back,” she commands.
Absolutely not; no way can I let her do this.
“Get out of here,” I order her. “Go.”
“No, you’re hurt!” she says, stubbornly rushing forward to the cell door.
McCall’s woman is yelling at the top of her lungs, but the voices fade and continue outside. As Trina fumbles with the keys I hear brakes screeching. You win, McCall.
“Crash, don’t worry. I’m getting you out of there,” my darling promises.
“Ho! Hold it,” roars the jailer, turning the corner, a hand pressed to a large purple knot on his head. The other hand holding his standard-issue pistol.
Trina freezes, the key in the lock. She looks at me and then the fat man advancing towards her. I’m already trying to get myself up, trying with all the strength I have left, so I can keep her from doing what I think she’s about to do.
“No,” I tell her. “Get out of here. Go, babygirl— NO!”
Trina jerks open the lock, throws the duffel in the cell and jumps in after it. She slams the lock shut and lightning-quick wrenches the key back through the bars, scooting out of reach of the jailer.
“Smooth,” says Crocodile.
“Get out of there right now,” the jailer howls at Trina in indignation. “You’re a lady! You’re not supposed to be mixin’ with the menfolk!”
“I’m not leaving until I can talk to somebody. As in the Reverend ,” Trina declares imperiously. She crosses over to me. “Get Reverend Wilson down here immediately.”
“The honorable Reverend is golfing!”
“At Houston Sunny Acres? I can wait,” says Trina firmly.
“Well maybe this is for the best,” the jailer sneers. “I got both of you right here together. The Reverend will talk the super into raisin’ my pay. Maybe you just did me a favor.”
“You’re welcome,” says Trina. “Please, may I have some water?”
I’m not the only one her sweet charm works on. The man brings a lukewarm bottle out, and Trina gives me my first sip of water in hours.
“Thank you,” I tell her.
“You look terrible , Crash.”
“I’m fine.”
Gently she touches my cheek and takes a look at the damage on the back of my head. “What happened ?”
“Wild animal,” I summarize.
“Who put those stitches in your head?” She feels my forehead with a cool, soft hand. “You’re hot as blazes!”
I grab her arm as she starts digging in the duffel bag. “Get out of here.”
She shrugs me off. “I can’t leave you here like this.”
“I’ll be fine.”
“You won’t,” she hisses. “The only way you survive is if I make a deal with Reverend Wilson.”
She’s assuming he won’t kill us both. I saw the man point a loaded gun at her, and I don’t like those odds.
“Don’t argue,” I growl.
“You’re never going to believe this,” she says, ignoring me. “It was Jada who told me where you were. Jada Gambino .”
“Where is that bitch?” Crocodile pipes up irritably from his cell. “She was supposed to come get me out of here.”
“I don’t know, er, Mister Crocodile,” Trina apologizes. “I’m sure she’ll be here soon.”
“She had better be or she’s working a double shift tomorrow,” Crocodile says grumpily.
Trina turns back to me. “Jada also told me you were looking for a redheaded man.” Her eyes meet mine. “Like the one who just left.”
I don’t say anything. Doesn’t matter, anyway. McCall is gone. Maybe I should have taken his deal. Not for my sake, but Trina’s. I could have used his help getting out of here. Then I could get Trina to safety.
Nevermind that I can barely keep my eyes open much less stand upright. I blink at her beautiful face through feverish delirium. She’s braver than I thought.
“What did you want with that man, Crash? And don’t tell me to leave again because the answer is no.”
“Can’t tell you.”
“Yes, you can ,” she snaps. “I hitchhiked all the way back here to rescue your butt, and the least you can do is tell me the truth!”
“You want the truth?”
“Yes!” She says, rifling through the duffel bag. “Who is he?”
“He’s wanted.”
“ Wanted ?”
“Yes. I’m a…I’m a bounty hunter.”
Her eyes get that round, shocked look I secretly find adorable.
“How much would you get for him?” She asks shrewdly.
“A lot. Big Boss man back home— McCall stole from him.”
“I came here with his wife and daughter. She seems nice.” Trina scowls. “You can’t bring them in, Crash. Dee helped me get away from a biker, and she gave me a ride all the way up here. You owe her. There!”
She’s found what she’s looking for in the bag. “What are these pills for?” She asks, shaking the bottle in my face. “These are antibiotics?”
I nod. I don’t have the strength to argue with her about McCall or his wife. Or even think.
“Okay. You’ll have to take them,” Trina says.
“Empty stomach.”
“Well, you have to try!” She studies the label, then hands me two pills. “Open.”
I put them in my mouth.
“Drink,” she says, uncapping the bottle and thrusting it under my nose.
“Yes Ma’am.”
I drink slowly, knowing it’s my best chance to get my strength back.
“You amaze me,” I tell her. “Nurse. Consider it.”
“Thanks,” she says, huddling close. “I was always good at getting people better.” I put my arm around her. I wish she wasn’t in here with me. I wish she was somewhere safe.
“I need you to tell me how the hell you ended up in here, Crash.”
And so with great effort I tell her the whole story, ending with the surprise attack that left me unconscious in front of the Serenity Motel.
“I hit an owl’s nest,” I tell her slowly. “When I first met you. Knocked it off the billboard, killed the chicks. I didn’t mean it— of course. But I…pissed off the hen.”
“You’re joking,” says Trina. “Please tell me you’re joking.”
I shrug. “The Ivory Barn Owl’s been compared to crows… They hold grudges, recognize…faces. I murdered…young.”
“Crash, I have never heard of owls attacking people.”
“Stranger things…”
“So…that man and his wife stole a lot of money from your boss?”
I nod.
“But she seemed so nice,” Trina sighed. “And her baby was so cute.”
“Irrelevant.”
Trina’s eyes widen. “Were you going to kill them ?”
“My instructions…bring back McCall alive.”
“What if his wife fought back?”
“Handle her.”
“What does that mean? Does that mean you would kill her? What if she pulled a gun on you, and you fired and hit the baby?”
“Wouldn’t murder a mother and her child…what…take me for?”
“What if you did it accidentally? I can’t believe you do this for a living.” She looks disturbed. “I never expected this from you.”
“Paying for my sins…now.” I exhale slowly, breathing through the pain. Her antibiotic alchemy has yet to kick in. “Good chance…I don’t make it out.”
“It’s not over until it’s over,” says Trina, examining the butchery McCall did on my head with gentle fingers. “God shows the way. Look — I have your cellphone. You can call somebody.”
“Best girl. You thought…everything.” I take the phone from her, consider my options, and then hand it back.
“What are you doing?”
“There’s nobody.”
“What do you mean?” She hisses.
“Worry about yourself,” I say, fighting the urge to close my eyes. I clench my fists, wriggle my toes. “Get help. In town. Find somebody.”
A line appears between Trina’s eyebrows. “We can’t just give up!”
“Have a gun?”
“No,” she says. “You took it when you left, remember?”
Right. And they disarmed me when they threw me in here.
“Is there a way to get someone’s phone number if you have an address?” She asks suddenly.
“Yes. Why?”
“I might have an address.”
“Give me the phone.”
“Which one?”
“Locked one.”
The app I pay through the nose for pulls up records, addresses, phone numbers.
“What’s the address?” I ask Trina thickly. My vision’s going black. My thumb starts slipping on the keys.
“Let me do it.” She takes the phone and stabs at it rapidly.
“There. Now what?” She asks.
“Wait.”
“Does it always take so long?”
“Patience.”
Bingo.
She shows me the screen. One Moonlight Abeline Shankara, who lives at 1174 Lincoln in Playa Vista, Los Angeles.
“You remembered?”
“I did,” says Trina. “How do I use this damn phone? There!” She dials the number.
“California. She’s too far.”
“She’ll pick up,” Trina says confidently. “Mamie always picks up.”
“Does she own…magic carpet?”
Our last hope is an old woman named Moonlight who lives in California. Ah, fuck it…I can’t stay awake. My head is falling off my damn body.
A noise from the front.
“They’re back there, sir,” says the jailer. “Both of them! Just like you wanted.”
“Excellent,” comes that snotty drawl I remember all too well.
Fuck.
Trina looks at me in horror, but she dials the number.
“Ah-ah, mister Reverend sir. I’m afraid— um— you have to fill out this paperwork, see?”
“Paperwork?” The Reverend bellows. “The hell you say! Open that door at once.”
“I’m sorry, your eminence, but rules are rules.”
“Where is the Sheriff? Who’s in here today?”
“Er— he took the day off for his birthday, sir. They’re having a party at his house but somebody had to stay back and watch the prisoners.”
“Hurry,” I tell Trina grimly.
“She’s not picking up!” Says Trina in a panic. “She always picks up.”
“Did you bring a knife— something--”
“No,” she chokes. The phone rings out. “No, Crash, I don’t have anything.”
I kiss her. A long, sucking, biting kiss. The last.
“I love you,” Trina blurts when I pull away. Her eyes are sad but determined. “I won’t let you die in here.”
“I’m not gonna die. Just…scratch.”
Her hands cup my face. I’m fading out.
“Have faith,” she says. “Trust in God.”
I stare at her as gray spots flood my vision. Footsteps are coming; that foul bastard come to put hands on my girl.
“Don’t let him take you,” I heave. “Get…get behind me.”
“Crash…”
She takes my hand and puts it to her cheek. I feel her tears but I don’t see them. It can’t end like this. All my life I’ve been the strongest, the baddest motherfucker in the room. The killer. I’ve been through war, damn it. I’ve killed and wrangled men with my bare hands. It can’t end like this, with the woman I love torn from me by some sick fuck I could have handled easy.
And Ruby. My daughter…My sister…
“Tell…Jess…” I mumble to Trina. Blindly I sag against her.
“There you are,” says the Reverend.
In the distance I hear a woman’s voice cry out like an avenging angel, “ NOT ANOTHER STEP!”
The last thing I hear before I fade is Trina’s gasp. “Mamie!”