CHAPTER 12
Alessio
The Undisputed Truth Club went on a hectic, thrilling spree.
We figured why the fuck not? We were already wanted for murder, not to mention the prison break.
And with Erin and Gunning constantly doomscrolling for updates, real or imagined, about us, we got the vibe of underground heroes.
I was the Will-o‘-the wisp Bandit, Truman my Cock o’the Walk, and we played off each other perfectly.
Light and dark, Dom and sub, we walked every line possible, outlaws staying just ahead of the cops.
Truman, nearly being the law himself when I’d met him, seemed to loathe them even more nauseously than I did. Denmark was impressed with him.
The next day near Fresno, we robbed a fentanyl dealer on the street. But we got only about forty bucks, and didn’t realize a plainclothes pig was leaning against the building not half a block away. I rattled Truman’s arm.
“We need to run. Now!”
Unfortunately, the cop could run as fast as us, shoving feeble users aside as he ran, so on the spur of the moment I grabbed someone’s motorized scooter.
We had the good fortune that it was a high performance Kaabo King.
I pressed the throttle with Truman gripping my hips, a little surprised when it sped down the sidewalk at least at fifty miles an hour, our necks snapping.
“Whoa!” yelled Truman. I wasn’t sure if he was glad or unhappy.
I had to slow it down when I merged into traffic at a curb ramp, drumming my brain over the sidewalk bumps. “He still following?” I shouted, swerving by a driverless taxi.
Truman put his chin on my shoulder. “You’re not gonna believe this.” He paused for dramatic effect. “He’s riding a bike.”
“Bike? Like electric bike?”
“No.” I heard him laugh over the clanging and vrooming of traffic. “A regular bike.”
Of course at the red light I had to stop and fucking look back.
A regular bike could have feasibly caught up with us if the rider was talented. But this dude had whipped a bicycle with training wheels from some homeless guy.
Un-be-fucking-lievable. He wheeled along, slower than a kid just learning to ride.
Even the addicts were laughing as the guy furiously pressed against the pedals, huffing and puffing.
His fellow officers would never let him forget this.
He maxxed out at maybe eight miles an hour, allowing us the luxury of standing still and laughing.
Pedestrians even noticed, several snorting with glee, making surprised lip farts.
“You’re crushing it, bro!”
“Pedal to the metal!”
“Rock it, buddy!”
One guy even looked quizzically at the joint in his hand, probably wondering what it was laced with.
The pig wobbled side to side, legs pumping in hot pursuit, his knees almost to his chest. Truman laughed so hard I felt his stomach clench against my lower back.
But soon it was time to go, and I took a right onto a less crowded street where Denmark met us. He chortled at the absurdity of our own ride. We didn’t bother explaining that the hilarity was behind us, slowly creaking along.
We were becoming a club, a union. I felt like the leader of a band, as in days of old, orchestrating their moves. Denmark stole a new ride but took his intersex flag with him. I couldn’t have been prouder. I told Truman to buy a new burner phone.
We discovered that a newsman, a Jack Hoffman, was following us, documenting our every step. He was a suave, Latino guy about my age with buck teeth, a hefty Adam’s apple gulping at his every word, but he seemed on top of things. By that, I mean he idolized us.
The night of the training wheels episode, we gathered around Truman’s laptop in a motel to hear Jack Hoffman avidly speak.
“Notorious crime couple, Will o’the Wisp Alessio Messina and Denmark Groover, got only forty dollars today from a drug dealer in Modesto. But the getaway sparked so much more.”
We held our breaths as they played some camera footage from various viewpoints. Most of them seemed to show me zipping by on the scooter. Strange thing was, the guy behind me gripping my waist clearly wasn’t black. And Jack Hoffman picked up on that.
“Oddly,” he frowned, casually strolling through a crowd of addicts at the scene of the crime, “Messina’s companion didn’t seem to be Mr. Groover, the murderer he broke out of jail last week.” They zoomed in on an extremely pixilated image of Truman’s profile. To me, he seemed to be laughing.
“Busted!” cried Erin, shoving Truman’s shoulder.
“You bad!” shouted Denmark.
“I’d never think of a scooter,” lamented Gunning.
My nerves rising, I glanced at Truman to see his reaction. He giggled like a dancing dervish, seemingly enamored with himself. I was glad to see that. He needed more self-assurance.
Hoffman continued as he strolled, as though the crusty street was the Champs-élysées.
“Wanted posters have been sent nationwide as of this morning, but still.” He paused for dramatic effect, squarely facing the camera.
“With the mystery of this companion in crime, and the gang’s ability to evade the law, tension builds as to where they’ll strike next.
In the meantime.” And they cut to a video of the cop with the training wheels creaking along behind us.
“The identity of Messina’s new gang member remains a riddle.
And a diverse array of dreamers, oddballs and misfits remain at large. ”
Truman clicked pause on the end of the video, while Erin squealed, “We’re no gang! We’re a fucking club, like a motorcycle club.”
Gunning said, “He got the oddballs and misfits part right.”
Truman put the laptop behind him on the motel mattress and stood. “I’m going to send that motherfucker one of your postcards.”
Postcards? I’d forgotten all about buying those from the liquor store. From a side pocket of his suitcase, Truman withdrew some colorful pieces of cardboard. He whipped a pen from the tabletop with a flourish, wiggling his eyebrows.
I wanted in on this.
“Whatcha doing?” I asked, breathing down his neck.
Clicking the pen, Truman sat down, flipping over what I realized was an actual blank postcard. “Erin, google that reporter’s snail address,” he commanded. I leaned low with palms against the table as I watched him print:
Dear Jack Hoffman,
We are the Undisputed Truth Club, here to rob sleazy drug dealers ruining the lives of our citizens.
He didn’t have much room left after that, so he added:
And I am Truman Oakley.
“These are prestamped,” he informed me, fluttering the card in my face.
My eyes actually teared up with pride. Gunning snatched the card from Truman, reading it aloud. “Dude! You rock! This is perfect!”
“You bad!” agreed Denmark.
I cupped his skull in my hand, nearly scouring his head with my knuckles as though an adorable boy. He had that kind of hair. I nearly whispered, “I love you,” thanking God that I caught myself in time. Plus, a soft knock on the door sounded.
We all froze. Probably thinking the same thing. How did Jack Hoffman find us so fast?
No one jumped to answer, so the guy on the other side said, “Motel.”
Guessing I was the leader of the club, I strode to open it. A dull-looking guy who said sincerely,
“Hey. I want you to know, I think you’re the guys we saw on TV. I don’t want to have to call the cops on you. I think what you’re doing is great. Robbing the rich, right?”
“Yeah,” I said. “Only we’re not giving to the poor. We need it to live.”
“And to escape,” said Truman, right behind me.
Denmark added, “We don’t want you to call the cops either.”
“Hey,” said the guy again. “I feel obligated to, ‘cause pretty much everyone in this building knows who you are. One of them’ll do it first if I don’t. I want to give you major notice to get the fuck out of here.”
I sighed heavily. Being on the run had its drawbacks. “What gave us away?” I gestured. “We have a girl with us.”
The guy chortled. “Well. Your beard and moustache, for one. I remember your face from record stores.”
Record stores? Now I did feel old. “All right. We’ll get the fuck out of here. Did we pay you?”
“You don’t need to pay. I’m just glad to host you for a few hours. Too bad you have to leave.”
“Yeah,” I said. “We understand.”
The motel guy had a devilish look now. “You go, Western Will-o’the- Wisp!” Becoming glum, he advised, “If I was you, I’d get rid of that Honda.”
His shining face was gone, and we were all stuck looking at each other. Shit. Scumsucking shit. We all had one question on our mind, and Erin was the first to ask,
“Now what do we do? We can’t stay in any motels, that’s for sure. They’ll just notice us again.”
Gunning agreed. “We’re easy pickings.”
Truman said, “But we want to nab that dickwipe Les Moore.”
Yeah, yeah, yeah, everyone grumbled, not too convincingly. Some outlaw club we were! So I slapped both Denmark and Truman on the shoulders—loudly.
“We heard what the guy said. We need to lose that Honda. You ready for that, Truman?”
Truman stood tall. “Sure. Just let me grab some shit from the glovebox.”
“We’ll leave the plate on to let ol’ Jack Hoffman know we’re gone.”
“I think the question is,” said Denmark, “where do we sleep? It’s already three. If this guy noticed us, everyone else will.”
I said, “We’ll split up. We go ditch the Honda and steal something else. You guys already had your plates switched out, so you’re good. Gunning and Erin can buy food. Erin, you can ride bitch with Gunning. Go ahead and find a motel and we’ll, uh, just…”
I guess I faded out then, because Truman propped me up. “We’ll find somewhere to sleep. It’s only October, and it’s always warm, with no rain.”
Erin actually saluted me. “Good show, sir.”
“But Denmark,” I said, as they rustled toward the door, “do everyone a solid. Ditch that black studded visor. You’re like a mark with a whole army shooting at you.”
Denmark tipped his visor at me. “Yes, sir. I’ll get another sort of visor.”
“Let’s bail now, then,” said Gunning, taking Erin by the arm. They had another room with all their shit in it. Soon Truman and I were alone. Placing my hand on his shoulder, I had to lean down a little to look him in the eye.
“You know we’re gonna find Les Moore.”
“Yeah.” He seemed pretty reconciled to it.
“We’re gonna find out who his source is, and go to that guy next.”
“Definitely.”
“You’re in.”
“I’m in.”
Squeezing both his biceps, I nearly picked him off the floor when I kissed him. He wrapped his boot behind my knee, fingers entwined behind my neck, and opened his mouth on my lips. He was merging with me, in agreement, the lush lapping of his tongue telling me everything I needed to know.
He was mine.