Six Bad Things Part 24

--They're not looking for three guys in a.

--You been listening to Sid? We don't know what they're looking for.

Sid is nodding.

--Dude is right. If they're looking for a Westy, we're f.u.c.ked no matter what. Otherwise, you're the wanted man.

Rolf tosses the guns from his day pack into the stash s.p.a.ce.

--Even if they search us, there's a good chance they won't find you in there.

--Let's just turn around.

The lights are bright now. Sid's shaking his head.

--Too late for that, dude. They see us flip a b.i.t.c.h here and we'll have to pull a Smokey and the Bandit in this thing. No way.

Rolf is holding the pad up.

--In, dude.

--Maaan.

--Dude, who's the professional people smuggler?

I climb in, kick the guns to the bottom of the s.p.a.ce, and try to make myself flat. Rolf stuffs a couple sweats.h.i.+rts around my head.

--What the h.e.l.l are those for?

--In case a cop decides to sit on you.

--Oh, f.u.c.k you, man.

He laughs and drops the pad.

I'M NOT claustrophobic, but I do a pretty good impersonation of someone who is. It's not so much small places that I'm afraid of as being restrained. I wasn't born with this fear, it's just that it reminds me of being gagged with a dirty sock, pinned to a bed, and tortured. That is something I have experience with, and I don't expect to be getting over it. Ever. I looked it up once. There's no name for my specific a.s.sociation, but there's something called merinthophobia: the fear of being bound or tied. Being packed into a shallow depression and having a foam pad stuffed on top of you may not count as binding or tying, but it will do in a pinch. So I think skinny thoughts, try not to breathe too much, and eke what oxygen I can through the foam.

I HEAR the engine vibrating right under me and the squeak of the brakes as we stop. There are some sounds that might be voices, and then the bus is moving again, pulling forward. f.u.c.kin' A, that wasn't too bad. We're through.

The bus swings to the right, stops, and the engine cuts out.

My heart starts trying to slam a hole in my chest. I suck air, oxygenating my blood like a diver, knowing what's coming.

The weight in the bus s.h.i.+fts. I hear two bangs: Sid and Rolf climbing out and slamming the doors. A gliding s.h.i.+ver, another bang, another lurch of the bus: the side door being pulled open and a cop climbing in. I stop breathing.

One. Two. Three. Four.

I'm counting. That's a bad idea. Counting will just make me think about how long I'm holding my breath. I should think about something else. Calm thoughts. The beach. I picture my place at the beach. Palm trees waving, waves lapping. One wave. Two waves. Three waves.

Stop it.

Voices now.

--Mumble mumble in that cabinet?

Has to be a cop.

--Mumble here.

Rolf.

How close are they if I can tell what they're saying? One foot? Two feet? Three feet? Stop it!

--In that bag mumble?

--Mumble laundry mumble mumble.

--Under mumble there mumble?

Under? Under what? The rug? Are these guys looking for a fugitive or just ha.s.sling Rolf and Sid? Under? f.u.c.k! The bench/bed is the top of a low cabinet.

--Mumble look mumble in there?

--Sure, dude.

f.u.c.k you, Rolf.

I can hear it, I can feel it: the cop kneeling on the floor inches from me, popping open the cabinet doors, s.h.i.+ning his flashlight inside, digging around right under me, trying to find something that will make his evening more interesting.

He's digging and digging. One. Two. Three. I need to breathe. I have to move. I can't be held down like this. I s.h.i.+ft a quarter inch to the left and something pokes me in the side. Pictures in my head: being forced facedown on my bed, a man sitting on my legs, pulling out surgical staples, digging holes in my back. One. Two. Three. Stop! Please stop!

I feel pressure on top of the pad. Two hands on my stomach as the cop uses the bed to push himself up. All the remaining air is forced from my lungs.

--Thanks mumble.

And I open my mouth wide and suck and gasp.

Out! I need out!

--No mumble worries.

I shove the pad off. It flops silently to the floor as the door slides shut and bangs tight behind the exiting officer. Rolf glances back at me as he climbs in the front seat and we drive away from the roadblock. The highway patrol cops wave us on.

Up front, Rolf and Sid slap hands and laugh while I hyperventilate and ask myself just what the f.u.c.k I think I'm doing with these two. When you get right down to it, are these guys anything but a pile of dead bodies waiting to happen?

We go around a bend, and the guns Rolf stashed in the hole with me slide across the wood and bang against my knee.

BETWEEN JEAN and Sloan, about twenty miles outside Vegas, Sid has Rolf pull a couple dozen yards off the highway, takes the garbage bag full of our clothes and a fold-up camping shovel, and gets out of the bus. Rolf sits in the driver's seat. I sit behind him on the bench seat. We watch Sid, illuminated by one of those multipurpose emergency lights, as he digs his hole. The Westphalia screens the light from the drivers on the highway. I climb into the front pa.s.senger seat, roll down a window, and stick my head out to look up at the stars. Nothing, clouds. Rolf has put in an Allman Brothers tape. I pull my head back in and light a smoke and listen to "Melissa."

--Rolf?

--Yeah?

He's focused on his lap, where he has several roaches and sc.r.a.ps of shake spread out on a back issue of Rolling Stone. This is the last of his stash, he's rolling a couple joints to get him through until he can score some more in Vegas.

--What about Leo and Pedro?

--Dude?

--Do you think they knew who I was? Who I am?

--Who knows what they know, dude? Those guys, are like the. That thing they have in the desert?

--What?

--The thing that doesn't talk? Napoleon's soldiers shot the nose off of it?

--The Sphinx?

--Yeah, dude, Pedro and Leo are like the Sphinx, who knows what they know?

He has half the gra.s.s scooped onto the cardboard flap of a pack of Zig-Zags. He dumps it into a creased rolling paper he's holding in his other hand. I check on Sid: still digging.

--Think they'll get ha.s.sled much? Over me?

--Hard to say, dude. Figure those Federales were working on their own, but sooner or later some dude that's been at The Bucket's gonna see your pic on TV and remember you. Then who knows what goes down?

I finish my smoke, toss it out the window, and reach in the kangaroo pocket of my pullover for another. My hand slides across cold steel. I feel the cigarette box, take it out, and look inside: three left. I light one and keep the box in my hand.

Rolf is right. My photo is on cable news along with the sketch. That means it will be seen all over the world. A Mexican cop will remember me from Chichen Itza, or somebody from the beach will see it and call the police. Sooner or later they'll find the connection between the sergeants and me.

--Will they hook Leo to the dead Federales?

The joint is rolled, he's sc.r.a.ping the rest of the gra.s.s together to make a second.

--Nah, I don't see why they would, dude. I mean, dude, you're Henry Thompson. After they trace your movements around and talk to people and investigate you for that Russian guy's death? They'll finger you for the Federales, and the doctor, too. Why make it harder than it has to be?

Once again, other people's dead bodies piling up in my account.

--Sorry 'bout that, by the way. Not the way I planned it, dude. But whatever.

--Yeah. Whatever.

He has the second scoop of gra.s.s resting in a paper, and holds it while he presses a fingertip onto little flakes still on the magazine cover and flicks them into the unrolled joint. I drag off my cigarette.

--Dude, you need to, like chill out now. Leo and Pedro are total survivors. Their s.h.i.+t might get messed with, but it's not like they'll do any time or anything.

He rolls the second joint, tucks it behind his right ear, pulls the first one from behind his left ear, puts it in his mouth, and lights it.

--Want to mellow out?

--I'll pa.s.s.

He tokes the joint and reads Rolling Stone by the light of his Bic. Sid has tossed the bag in the hole and is filling it in. I take a last drag, flick my b.u.t.t out the window. I slip the cigarette box back in my pocket, and fill my hand.

--So, Rolf, what am I doing with you guys?

He's still looking at the magazine.

--Dude?

--I mean, why should I stay with you?

He turns his head to look at me and sees Danny's pistol in my hand, pointed at him.

--I mean, what is it you're threatening me with?

Rolf starts to straighten up.

--Just stay the f.u.c.k where you are.

--Dude, this is so uncool, we have a deal.

--Screw you. I am so sick of that line. I've had deals with people like you, and they always get f.u.c.ked up, and I always end up getting f.u.c.ked.

--This is such a bad call, dude.

--Why? Tell me why? You can't go to the cops. You can't threaten my parents, because you can't go anywhere near that town. The only thing you can do is kill me or hurt me, so why shouldn't I just get away from you?

--Oh, dude! Threaten your parents? Like I would do that. That's ill.

--Is that supposed to make me feel better? Is that supposed to rea.s.sure me? Oh, don't worry, dude, I would never, like, hurt your folks. That s.h.i.+t is, like, totally out of bounds, duuuuuuude.

--Dude, you need to chill.

--Get out of the bus, Rolf.

--Dude.

--GETOUTOFTHEf.u.c.kINGBUS!!!.

Something changes outside. My eyes flick to the right. Sid's light is off. I can't see him. I can't see where Sid is.

Rolf moves. He yanks the door handle and pushes backward, falling out of the bus.

My finger jerks on the trigger as Rolf, still in the line of fire, is dropping to the sand. Nothing happens. There is a thump as Rolf lands on the ground, out of view.

I look at the pistol. The safety is on.