Joel Goldman

Die, lover, die

Part One

Lauren Blaine didn’t know who was in the car behind her, and she didn’t know when they’d picked up her trail. She looked over at the man in the passenger seat. He looked back, his face a blank. He had nothing to say. He seldom did.

“I don’t think I can lose them,” Lauren said.

The man’s head moved a fraction of an inch in what might have been considered a nod.

“I’m going to try, though.”

Another slight movement, which Lauren took for assent. She pressed down on the accelerator and the Cadillac CTS-V surged forward. They were on a little-used farm-to-market road, a curvy, hilly two-lane blacktop that Lauren had turned onto from the Interstate. She’d planned to cut over to the state highway to the west and follow that to their destination. Now she wished she hadn’t taken the shortcut.

The car behind her was gaining, which seemed impossible. The Caddy was the fastest production sedan made in the U.S. But maybe the car behind had been made elsewhere.

Lauren risked another glance at the man beside her. He unfastened his seatbelt, reached inside his jacket, and pulled a Kimber 1911. 45 from a shoulder holster. Lauren didn’t think a gun was going to be any help, but seeing it did make her feel a little better. The man refastened his seatbelt.

Lauren didn’t feel better for long. As the Cadillac crested a hill, she saw a slow-moving farm combine not a hundred yards ahead. It was so wide that it took up most of the road.

“Uh-oh,” the man said.

Lauren’s heart was in her throat, her pulse pounded, steadily increasing as they raced closer to the combine. It went from a metal insect on the ribbon of road to a behemoth of mud-splattered steel in a terrifying span of seconds. She looked at the man seated next to her for guidance, but his eyes told her everything she needed to know. They said, whatever you do, don’t slow down…

POP! Lauren heard a flat, harsh sound, remembered getting so angry with a man for cheating she’d slapped him across the face; it was that kind of sound but smaller somehow, more compact. The wind screeched into her face. With a feeling of dread she located the tiny spider web shape in the safety glass inches from her headrest. A bullet hole. The men in the other car were shooting at them. One round had come within inches of erasing her life. The sound came again.

She panicked a bit and their car fishtailed down the highway, an accidental but effective evasive maneuver. Lauren slid from the road and danced along the embankment, flattening wheat. She briefly wondered if she should gun the engine and try her luck in the fields. But they had no idea what was out there in the rows and rows of wheat, ditches and sink holes and rocks perhaps, scores of ways to stall the car. On the other hand they would be free to run on foot and covered by the seemingly eternal ocean of tall wheat.

The combine driver leaped from the machine and Lauren jerked the wheel left, crossed the road and bounced the car into the field. Her sense of direction was nearly always wrong and she was counting on that, heading opposite of what felt right to get to Kansas City. For over ten years, the darkness of LA clubs had replaced the open sky bordered by glistening grain, beauty she still hoped to reclaim.

Paolo turned. “Shit!”

Her lip curled and trembled. “You’re the one insisted on coming.”

“I saved your ass!”

She clenched her jaw and checked the road. No car on the hill. Ahead, one hope for cover; a sloping barn against the blue.

What had she been thinking? After two years of marriage, watching Jimmy’s drug money grow and keeping her Kansas roots secret, she’d sacrificed her lead-time. Her little farm, the herb garden, dogs, chickens, the pot-bellied pig… all her dreams traded for a one-night stand. Now up to three nights. If she’d known that Jimmy was so well connected-but no, it was her stupid drinking that got her into trouble again.

She glanced out the side window. The other car still hadn’t crested the hill. Christ, yes! A few more seconds! She glared at Mr. Smooth-face-square-jaw, his wide eyes shifting between barn and highway-what the hell was his last name? She should be sick of those thick lashes and muscular lips, finished with all six foot three of him, but she still felt the warm sting, making her want it again-if only she could find the fucking highway.

“Pull into that barn,” Paolo said.

She shot him a glare. “What the hell else did you think I was going to do?”

But she did it anyway, sliding through the open doors that seemed to be waiting for her. She didn’t wait for the jerk’s help — she scrambled out, shut the barn doors, the scent of hay strangely comforting. In some weird way, she was home.

“We’ll wait it out,” she said, and turned, and the handsome prick was grinning at her, the Kimber pointed right at her.

“Fuckin’ funny,” he said.

“I was just thinking that.”

“You figured they were after you. No. Me.”

“They’re not Jimmy’s people?”

“No.”

“Who are they then?”

“Does it matter? You knew I worked with Jimmy. You knew I swam in those waters.”

Talkative now, all of a sudden. Why hadn’t he shot her?

Of course. The farmhouse. A shot might bring Farmer Brown. But this move — pulling the gun on her — it spoke volumes: he was stupid. He could have picked the right moment to show his hand. Too early in the game…

“You don’t need that,” she said, gesturing toward his gun-in-hand. “We’re in the shit now. Together. I’m helping you. Why — “

“That’s the funny thing. Jimmy hired me to take care of you.”

The prick had picked her up in that bar and screwed her silly for how long? And his end game was a bullet?

“Sit over there.”

Apparently he didn’t see the pitchfork leaned against the post.

She knew she had only seconds to fill her fingers with the pitchfork handle then turn and stab him before he could get an accurate shot off. She remembered how he’d complimented her after their fourth round of lovemaking. She obviously inspired him. Now she hoped that doing a slutty walk in her tight red skirt and sweaty white blouse could distract him from the Kimber in his hand.

She might have been a stripper strutting her stuff as she walked away from him and toward the bale of hay where he wanted her seated. Subtle he wasn’t. In the dusty confines of the barn, lazy dust-filled sunlight streaming through the shattered windows, his breathing became loud and short. Horndog.

As she approached the post the pitchfork leaned against, she put her hand to her backside and rubbed, as if giving herself pleasure.

Harder and harder came his breathing. That wasn’t the only thing that was harder no doubt.

God, could she actually pull it off? Suddenly the whole plan seemed absurd. He’d kill her right here and right now. What had she been thinking?

But wasn’t he going to kill her anyway? What did it matter where she died?

At times in her life she’d been so frightened that she seemed to be watching herself from a distance. A woman who was her twin sister would be trying to extricate herself from a dangerous situation. But Lauren Blaine had the easy part. All she had to do was watch.

“Drop it.”

She turned toward him still holding the pitchfork. Fuck, she was angry. She wasn’t sure if it was at this prick or at Jimmy, but her rage was near choking her. “Why don’t you just shoot me already?” she demanded.

He scratched lazily along his jaw with one hand as he trained his. 45 toward her chest with his other. Showing a thin smile, he said, “I’m not done with you yet.”

“What do you mean not done with me? In helping you get away from those men or in fucking me?”

“A little of both.”

The prick! Those words were like pouring gasoline on her rage as it exploded within her. She charged him then without realizing it, and when he fired a warning shot Lauren threw the pitchfork as she dove to the ground. Something wet and sticky hit her. When she looked up, she first saw the blood spray, then him, his eyes confused, the pitchfork sticking into his thigh and blood spurting from the wound. She had hit an artery and he was bleeding out fast. The confusion drained from his eyes as they became cold and reptilian. He shot at her to kill but he was too woozy to see straight, and the bullets bit into the barn floor next to her. He fired off two more shots as he fell backward. After a few twitches he stopped moving.

It became deathly quiet inside the barn. She heard a car pull up and held her breath as the engine was killed, then doors opened and closed.

Lauren didn’t waste any time looking for a place to hide. She scuttled over to Paolo and jerked the. 45 from his cold dead fingers. Okay, so they weren’t cold. What the hell.

Paolo had fired three shots. How many were bullets were left in the magazine? Four? Ten? A hundred? Lauren didn’t have a clue. She pointed the pistol at the doors.

One of the barn doors opened. A man poked his head inside.

Lauren pulled the trigger. The. 45 slug tore through the wooden door about three feet to the left and a foot above where the man’s head had been. Lauren wasn’t much of a shot.

The door opened all the way, and the man stepped inside. He didn’t seem afraid. Lauren didn’t blame him, but she fired the pistol anyway. And missed again, still wide left.

The man didn’t even blink. “You’re wasting your time,” he said. “My friend’s waiting outside, so even if you get me, which I doubt you will, he’ll come in and take care of you.”

Lauren pulled the trigger. The bullet went wide to the right this time. Over-correction.

“That pistol’s a Kimber,” the man said. “I heard four shots before, so that means you got one left. Wanna try again, or you just wanna come with me and Frankie? Jimmy wants to see you. Says you got something belongs to him.”

Lauren heard a low rumble. It was getting louder. She looked at the Kimber. It might as well have been a water pistol for all the good it did her. She dropped it to the dirt floor.

“Why did Jimmy send three, for insurance?”

That rumbling sound. Hadn’t he noticed? No. He was too busy studying her breasts. The man nodded. “We gave Paulo his space until you two took off. It looked like he was more up for dipping his wick than carrying out orders. So we lit out after you.” He looked at Paulo’s corpse, skin so waxen, the dirt and straw darkly stained. “Thanks. You didn’t waste him, we would have had to.”

And then he finally heard the noise. Stiffened.

“Is this some kind of convention?” Lauren asked. The stranger moved from registering the rumbling sound to something else, something more sinister. Lauren could see his mind struggling. Jimmy wants it back, but he also wants the bitch dead. What do I do now? Now that there’s some other car.

“Hustle up, dude!” The guy outside. The one he’d called Frankie. High voice, California accent. “We got company!”

The guy facing Lauren moved his eyes. They dropped down to his weapon. Armed it with a slide and a click. Lauren acted without thinking. She bent down, scrambled to grab the Kimber, lined up on his groin and fired. Her aim was as terrible as usual, up and a bit to one side, but this time her last slug took off part of his skull in a spray of blood and bone. He dropped. She ran over, pried the 9mm Glock from his hands. Lauren felt giddy. Yawn. Another body, another gun.

The engine cut off and she heard a car door open and close. No voices. Nothing. A shot! Two! Three! Four! How many guys out there? The doors would burst open any second and she had to be ready. She’d seen it on TV a hundred times. She got against the front wall, took a sturdy stance, holding the Glock with both hands. Which side of the door would open?

She widened her legs and held her breath. Waited. Panted. Her arms shook. She propped her elbow on her hip and struggled to keep her trigger hand steady. Sweat ran between her breasts.

After two lifetimes, her arm dropped to her side. All dead? Doubtful. Just waiting for her head to appear.

She glanced around. Light slanted from above, gleaming on Paolo’s tan forehead. Other than the sagging roof, the barn seemed sturdy. Odd timing, but she remembered a similar barn. Darrell, unsnapping his overalls. Mmm. He was a hot treat, but being a country wife hadn’t appealed to her, stoking the wood stove and snapping beans, chasing after grubby kids with their green-snotted noses. Church on Sunday. Hell, maybe coming back was all a mistake, not just the way she’d done it. There was life in LA.

She gave the door a kick, knocking it open a few feet. Nothing. She charged through and stopped fast in front of a rusty pickup with huge muddy tires. The windows were half down, a collie whining inside. “Sweet baby,” she said.

The collie was docile enough. Even more docile was Frankie, sprawled in the late model job alongside the pickup. Frankie was a little guy who’d splattered a lot of blood onto the driver’s side window; he’d taken three hits, two in the face and one in the throat. The latter wound was gurgling a little.

Looked like the pickup truck’s driver had slid up to a stop next to the newer vehicle and just started firing away through his open window.

Somebody didn’t like intruders…

Yet no sign of the driver. And that fucking collie hadn’t shot anybody. Lauren looked all around — the day had died on her, but visibility was fine in a clear blue dusk long with shadows. She circled the barn; gun in hand, till she came back to where she started.

Nobody.

If Frankie’s killer were the occupant of that farmhouse (where a couple lights were on), she’d need to hustle. She quickly returned to the barn, opened the trunk of her car, got rid of the extra suitcase — like Paolo himself, excess baggage — and gave the brown carry-on filled with Jimmy’s money a loving little pat.

She was just about to open the barn doors and drive the hell out, hoping for room to squeeze past the two parked vehicles out there, when the rugged-looking Marlboro man with the plaid jacket and blue baseball cap and double-barrel shotgun stepped inside.

“Hold ‘er right there, missy,” he said, face blank as a hay bale.

“Oh, thank God,” Lauren said. “I never thought I’d live through it. I’m so grateful you killed him.”

“Never mind that. What’s your connection to them?”

She knew better than to tell him anything. She had a bad girl/good girl switch somewhere in her brain. Good girl was in charge now. Sobs. Tears. The stereotypical, hysterical chickenshit woman.

“What the hell’s wrong with you?”

Fucking good girl switch. It must not be feeding her full power. She had to make the good girl switch work. She went back to sobbing. Then she pretended to start to faint.

He was right there to save her and right there to listen to her after he carried her over to a hay bale and set her atop it. The story he got should have made him sympathetic-bad guys chasing her and almost killing her-but she could see that he, looming over her, remained skeptical.

Then she stood up and fell into his arms, her fingers nimbly finding his crotch. Hard already. So he had been paying attention like a good doggie. Then why did he push her away?

“I want the truth. Now.”

“All right. You’re a fucking cynic, here’s the deal,” she said. Then she told him about the big pay day he’d get if he’d move the cars so she could get out and not call the cops on her for four hours. “That’s a lot of money.”

He was obviously thinking it over. What was he going to say?

As it turned out he didn’t have to say anything. The nasty smile and hungry look he flashed her answered her as well as words. Lauren started to unbutton her blouse, but Marlboro man turned her around and shoved her against the hay bale. There was a moment where he must’ve been fumbling with his pants, then her skirt was pushed up and her panties yanked down. He was rough as he entered her, his fingers digging into her thighs. Once again she was being used. Just like all those men at the club where she danced before she met Jimmy, and then Jimmy in those early days. How he’d trick her out so he could bust in and rob the sap while they were screwing. And later what Jimmy used to make her do with his business associates.

She caught his reflection in a glass pane, and she knew this time was different. Not just with how he was keeping his shotgun at arm’s length, but from the cruel twist of his mouth. She realized something else also.

“That guy in the tractor who ran me off the road. You look like him. A cousin of yours? A brother?”

He didn’t say anything. Just pounded harder into her like she was nothing but meat.

“What’s your game? You run rubes off the road, so you can rob them of their cars and money?”

“Shut up!”

“How many rubes you got buried out here?”

He grunted as he pulled out of her. “I’ll shut your mouth for you!” She didn’t fight him as he grabbed a fistful of her hair and guided her toward him. She went willingly. As far as she was concerned she was only going to be biting a sausage in half.

Marlboro man let out a scream. Lauren spat out a lump of flesh and scrambled to the shotgun while he stumbled a step backward while clutching his bloody stump. His eyes grew wide for a brief moment and then the shotgun blast obliterated them, as well as the rest of his face.

Lauren decided she was sick of Kansas. She adjusted her panties and skirt and then fished a set of car keys from Marlboro man’s jacket. With the money she had she was going to leave an ocean or two between her and Jimmy. No one would use her again. She couldn’t help smiling at what happened to the last few men who tried.

Part Two

Lauren rolled down the window as she cruised up Lake Shore Drive in the stolen Camry. No one ever told her the Windy City was so pretty, even at two in the morning. On one side a silver moon spilled a veil of sparks on the lake; on the other a few insomniacs’ lights twinkled in the high-rises. Chicago might be nicer than LA. She smiled, looking forward to a fresh start. Why not? She had the money and the talent. And the Glock.

She turned off the Drive, looking for a twenty-four-hour restaurant. Danger always gave her an appetite, and there’d been plenty of that back in Kansas. She’d spent the last twelve hours racing north to Nebraska in Marlboro Man’s pickup, leaving the carnage — and the bodies — behind. Then east into Iowa where she ditched the truck at a rest stop and hot-wired the Camry. She mentally thanked Hank for teaching her the necessary survival skills.

Now, she spotted the yellow sign above a Golden Nugget on a corner. She parked, slipped the Glock into her waistband, and stashed most of the cash in the trunk. Ducking her head to avoid the video camera tilting down on the sidewalk, she pushed through the door to the restaurant.

Inside, the staff outnumbered the customers. A waitress chatted up the short order cook behind the counter, and the sole customer, a man, crouched over a plate of what might have been meat loaf.

She slid into a booth in the back and picked up a greasy, laminated menu. She was ravenous. The waitress sauntered over and gave her the once-over.

“What ‘ll it be, honey?”

Lauren was about to answer when the door of the restaurant swung open.

A woman came in wearing tight, black leather pants and a faded bomber jacket over a Roots hoody. Her short-cropped hair was jet-black and so was her skin. She looked directly at Lauren with an intensity, and a smile of recognition, that made her stomach seize up.

She knows me.

But that wasn’t possible. There were thousands of miles, and several dead bodies, between her and any place she’d ever been before and anyone who’d ever known her.

It had to be a mistake.

“She’ll have a rare, double-cheese burger with mayonnaise, catsup, mustard, and raw onions, no tomato, crispy fries and a Coke, no ice,” the woman said as she strode over and slid into the booth across the table from Lauren.

Oh yes, she knows me.

It was exactly what Lauren was about to order, her favorite midnight snack.

But Lauren wasn’t hungry any more. She was scared and tired and pissed off.

The waitress scratched out the order on her pad then looked up at the black woman. “What’ll you have?”

“A slice of chocolate cake,” she said. “Black and sweet, like me.”

“I’m sure you are,” the waitress said and lumbered off.

Lauren stared into the woman’s eyes. Her Glock was already aimed at the woman’s crotch under the table.

“Who are you?”

The woman smiled. “That depends, Lauren. If you give me the money you took, I’m the seductive Nubian goddess you had an erotically-charged, late-night meal with one dark night on the road and always regretted not fucking. If you don’t give me the money, then I’m the bad-ass black bitch who killed you with that Glock you’re holding and then burned this hell-hole to the ground.”

Lauren kept her gaze level and her face expressionless.

Never let them see your fear.

“So you work for that low-life Jimmy?” she said.

“More like he works for me, angel.”

“And the money…”

“Mine. Just like your white ass.”

“Bullshit. Jimmy runs all the crank between St. Louis and-”

The woman’s laugh could have scared a Doberman Pinscher. “He told me you liked double cheeseburgers and were smart as hell. As least he got it half right.”

Under the table, Lauren’s hand was beginning to cramp. A Glock with a full clip is a helluva lot heavier than a man’s cock, even Jimmy’s. “What’s there to keep me from shooting you and hitting the road before you bleed out?”

“Think about it. Jimmy works for me. I work for The Man. You fuck with Jimmy, I’m on your ass. You fuck with me, The Man unleashes a shit storm you cannot imagine.”

The waitress delivered the cheeseburger and fries, but Lauren had lost her appetite. The woman grabbed the burger, French kissed a glob of mayo oozing out of the bun, and took a bite. Grease coated her lower lip, and she flicked at it with her tongue.

After a moment, Lauren said, “I don’t have your money.”

“No shit.”

“I stashed it in a farmhouse in Kansas.”

“You stashed it in the trunk of that dumb-ass Camry.” Another laugh like a barking dog.

Shit. She followed me. Maybe all the way from Kansas.

“So you’ve got the money back…”

“Except for what’s stuffed in your bra. Or did you suddenly become a D-cup?"”

“I don't get it. What do you want with me?”

The woman picked up a fry. Her long nails were perfectly manicured and painted blood red. “You gotta pay for what you did.” She sucked the fry into her mouth, took one bite, and swallowed. “You gotta do a job for The Man.”

One quick fluid motion, and Lauren slid out of the booth and pointed the Glock at the woman’s chest. “Tell the bastard to make an appointment.”

The woman’s fist shot out so quickly Lauren didn’t realize she’d been hit until she heard the Glock hit the tile floor and felt the stinger deep in her shoulder joint. A split second later, the woman was on her feet, a strong hand clamped around Lauren’s neck.

“This is the one who killed all those guys in Kansas?”

It was a man’s voice coming from behind Lauren. Filled with disbelief.

“She’s better than this,” the black woman said.

“I hope so, for your sake.”

Lauren strained to turn her head but the woman’s grip was too tight. She knew it was The Man behind her. What she didn’t know was what the hell he wanted with her.

“Hey! Leave her alone!” It was the guy at the counter. He gave up on his meatloaf and slid off the stool, hands on his hips. “I said let her go or I’ll call the cops!”

The Man laughed and nodded at the black woman. Still squeezing Lauren’s neck, she reached inside her bomber jacket with her other hand, whipped out a six-inch carbon steel throwing knife and let it fly, catching the guy in the throat. His carotid artery erupted in a bloody geyser as he melted to the floor.

Bug-eyed, Lauren looked around the diner. There was no sign of the cook or the waitress. For their sakes, she hoped they’d hit the street running and weren’t looking back. The Man had the same question.

“The cook and the waitress — where the hell are they?”

The black woman shrugged. “Fuck if I know.”

“Well find out, you stupid bitch! Now! We can’t afford any witnesses.”

“What about her?”

The Man grabbed Lauren’s arm, twisting it behind her back until Lauren was certain he’d rip it out of her shoulder. “Her? I can handle her. Now lock the door, turn off the lights and find those two!”

The black woman picked up Lauren’s Glock, did as she was told and disappeared in the back of the diner.

The Man tightened his grip on Lauren’s arm until she grunted in pain.

“You really bite that farm boy’s cock off?”

“Yeah.”

He leaned in close, cupping her breast and rubbing his cock against her, whispering in her ear. “Guess I’ll just have to play it safe and give it to you up the ass.”

A woman’s scream echoed from the back of the diner. The Man grinned until the lights came on and he saw the waitress, holding the black woman’s head in one hand, blood dripping from her severed neck, and aiming Lauren’s Glock at him. She put a round in the center of his face before he could make a sound.

“I swear to God,” the waitress said, “one more ball-sack-for-brains man comes in here and there’s going to be some serious shit go down. Now what’s all this talk about money?”

She dropped the severed head onto the linoleum floor. A bloody cleaver hung from her apron pocket, soaking the cheap fabric red. The waitress was as good with the knife as with the gun. Lauren knew that she was in trouble.

Still gripping the Glock, the waitress made her way closer to Lauren. Her hair was the color of twine with just about the same frizz. Lauren noticed for the first time that her face was completely dotted like her mother’s-you couldn’t tell when the freckles stopped and the age spots started. The skin underneath her chin sagged. The waitress was too old to accept any bullshit, especially from a younger woman. Lauren would have to play this straight.

“They have it now. Or at least had it.” Lauren gestured back towards the Man’s lifeless body and the smear of brain left on the wall.

“Get his keys.”

Lauren complied, stuffing her hand into the man’s jeans pocket, one at a time. Her suspicions were confirmed: the Man didn’t have much to offer.

“Somethin’ funny?”

Lauren remained silent, and fished a circle of keys-including a Ford’s-in the left pocket. She also felt something round and hard which she kept hidden in her palm.

She dangled the keys for the waitress to see. The nose of the Glock directed her out the door to the parking lot.

Police sirens wailed in the distance and Lauren estimated that they had a good five minutes before the black-and-whites arrived.

“Let’s get on with it.”

Lauren didn’t have any arguments with that. But she discovered that she didn’t need any keys because the truck door was already open. The cab was empty, aside from a couple of Circle K coffee cups on the passenger side floor.

Underneath a dim street light, yards away, they saw a slight man in an apron carrying a duffel bag make a run for an old Impala. It was the cook. The door slammed and the engine revved before the car tore out of the gravel lot onto the street.

“Fuckin’ Felipe,” the waitress said.

Around the corner on the other side three police cars came speeding in, their sirens and lights blazing.

Before Lauren could react, the waitress grabbed her by the good arm and hustled her around behind the truck. Five minutes? There were still sirens in the distance but these boys couldn't have been more than a block or two away. As the cruisers slammed to a halt before the restaurant, the waitress put a hand on Lauren's head to push her down and out of sight. The muzzle of the automatic pressed hard against her temple. The waitress peered through the cab and didn't let her up until the cops were safely inside the building.

"Okay, Barbie," the waitress said. "Let's see how well you drive."

"I got punched in the arm," Lauren said. "I can't feel my fingers."

"Sunnuvabitch," the waitress said. "Just get in."

The cops were still inside the diner as the truck pulled away. If any of them heard the squeal of the tires, no one made it out in time to witness their departure.

Two skipped red lights later the waitress said, "Those Cook County cops will be after my ass soon enough if I don’t come up with something.” The woman glanced at Lauren across the cab of the Ford truck, her expression hard in the passing streetlights. "You got a lot to answer for."

"Sorry," Lauren said, squeezing her shoulder and wincing as sensation returned. "Where are we going?"

"Got to take care of some business. Lucky for us Felipe drives like somebody's Grandma."

The Impala was about half a block ahead of them on an empty street of parked cars, and the distance was narrowing fast. The waitress sped up to get alongside and then, with one deft tweak of the wheel, cut across Felipe and drove him into the side of the road where he hit a Volkswagen and then a Toyota, which rammed the empty Chevy van in front of it.

About a dozen car alarms were making a screamers' orchestra as the waitress climbed out of the truck and walked toward the Impala. Felipe was kicking at the driver's door to get it open. He scrambled out just as she got there, and tried to run. She tripped him easily, put a foot on his back to stop him rising, and a shot in the back of his head to stop him for good.

Then she got back behind the wheel.

"Poor guy was heading for home," she said. "Got a wife and two babies waiting for him there. It's a damned shame."

They made a U-turn, and headed back toward the diner.

“The fuck are you doing?” Lauren shouted. “The money’s back in the Impala!”

“Yeah, but I got to get rid of you, first, Barbie.” The waitress laughed. “The cops ‘ll wanna give me a fucking medal when I deliver their prime suspect — all tied up with a neat pink bow.”

Lauren stiffened. She felt her eyes narrow. No fucking way was this bitch gonna get her stash. It belonged to her. No one else. She’d decide who to share it with. Maybe Hank. Maybe she’d even give Jimmy a cut. If she was feeling generous. She whipped her head around. The Impala was receding in the rear view. They were just about back at the diner. She had to act fast.

Three cruisers were double-parked in the street, their engines running. She lunged across the front seat of the truck. Before the waitress could react, Lauren wrenched the wheel hard to the left. The truck slammed into one of the cruisers. The impact threw her back, and Lauren felt her shoulder tear. A wave of pain washed over her. But the Glock, which had been in the waitress’s lap, slipped to the floor. Gritting her teeth against the pain, Lauren bent down and grabbed it. Opening the door with her good arm, she rolled out of the truck and onto the street. She had about two seconds to take off before the cops came outside. She staggered to her feet and took one last look at the waitress. The bitch hadn’t moved, and blood was trickling down her cheek.

Lauren hurried off around the corner, her escape obscured from view by the smashed vehicles, the darkness, and the smoke billowing out from truck’s hood.

Her right arm hung limply at her side as she marched back for her money in Felipe’s Impala. She’d dislocated her shoulder.

Just my luck.

Not that it had been so great lately.

Why was it that every man or woman that I’ve met since I left L.A. has wanted to fuck me…or kill me…or both?

There was a telephone pole up ahead. She stuck the Glock in her waistband, bent her right arm at 90-degree angle, held it firmly across her chest with her other hand, and started running…

What did I ever do to deserve this shit?

…she slammed her right shoulder against the pole, snapping the ball back into the joint with a satisfying pop. The pain was sharp, and intense, but it cleared her head.

So I ran off with a little money from my drug-dealing husband. Big fucking deal. It’s not that much. It sure as hell isn’t worth sending an army of horny psychopaths after me.

She shook her right arm and flexed her fingers. Her arm was sore, and her fingers tingled, but everything was in working order. She marched on.

So if it isn’t the money…what is this really all about?

She had nothing to go on.

Then she remembered that strange, round object she’d taken from the dead asshole’s pocket at the diner but hadn’t looked at…

Lauren reached into a pocket and drew out the object. A clear ball of plexiglass with the heft of a paperweight. Mounted inside was a black card with the silhouette of a naked woman, a printed address on South Doty, and five words embossed in gold:

LIFETIME PASS

PLATINUM GENTLEMAN’S CLUB

The Man must have been a helluva tipper, Lauren thought. She’d shimmied her ass through enough lap dances to know the type. You polish the guy’s knob like you’re waxing the hood of a new Caddy, he pulls out a couple C-notes and thinks he can slip it into you when the bouncer isn’t watching. Fuck him and the truck he rode in on.

She started jogging back to the Impala and the duffel bag.

Jimmy’s money.

Or the black woman’s.

Or The Man’s.

But now, mine.

It was less than a mile away, but the endless night was beginning to take its toll. Her shoulder throbbed, and sweat poured down her neck and over her breasts. Thankfully, the street was deserted, and the car alarms had gone silent. Her lungs aching, tasting bile, Lauren reached the Impala. In the forlorn light of a street lamp, she saw a pool of blood on the pavement near the driver’s door. But no body.

Oh shit. Where the hell was Felipe?

The driver’s door was open. On the front seat, shards of glass, two empty cans of Goose Island beer, and a grease-stained pizza box.

But no duffel bag of money.

Double shit.

She heard the purr of an engine and wheeled around, ready to shoot. Or run. Or both. A stretch limo — virgin white — pulled up to the Impala. On its rear door, the silhouette of a naked woman and the words, “Platinum Gentleman’s Club.”

The windows were tinted as dark as that dead waitress’ soul. She couldn’t tell if anyone was in the back, until the rear window rolled down.

A man’s voice — as familiar as her own — said, “Get in, Lauren.”

Triple shit.

“I don’t have the money,” she said.

“It’s not about the money. It’s personal.”

“So what is it you want, Jimmy?”

He stepped out and motioned her into the limo, holding the door for her, pretending to be a gentleman instead of the asshole he was. Lauren ducked her head, slid across the long seat to the opposite door, leaned back and stared into Felipe’s dead face, his body propped up on the seat across from her, the duffle bag snug against his side.

“Where are we going?” she asked.

“End of the line for you, kiddo.”

Ten minutes later, they were inside the Platinum Gentleman’s Club, a skinny white chick on stage, swinging around the pole, her tits as sad and tired as her face, one man in the seats, alone in the dark. The man raised his hand, the music stopped and the chick took a seat next to him.

“I got her and the money, Carl, just like I told you I would.”

Jimmy handed Carl the duffle bag, shoved Lauren onto the stage and stepped away, the three of them forming a triangle.

“So here’s the thing, Lauren,” Carl said. “In this business, you never know who you can trust. People will fuck you for sport and kill you just to let you know they meant it. And, from what I hear, you’re pretty damn good at both.”

“A girl’s got to do what a girl’s got to do.”

“I’m counting on that.”

The white chick picked up a 9 mm. Sig on the chair next to her, walked to the stage and handed it to Lauren.

“One round, that’s all you got,” Carl said. “Now, unless I’ve completely misjudged Jimmy, he’s pointing his gun at my head right about now. That right, Jimmy?”

“Figure I can’t miss from this distance.”

“So what’s it gonna be, Lauren? One shot. Who do you want to take your chances with? Jimmy or me?”

Lauren wrapped her fingers around 9mm. If Lauren had a friend in the room, it was definitely the gun. Too bad there was little time to be properly acquainted.

Mirrors covering the floor, wall and ceiling of the stage multiplied Lauren and her two marks, her estranged husband and the massive mound of flesh that was supposedly named Carl.

“For all you know, there’s no bullet in that gun,” Jimmy said, as Lauren lifted the 9mm.

“But you have more than one round, right, Jimmy? She goes for me and you get me and then her. You trust him? The asshole who’s wiped your Winfield dreams away?”

These fuckers are just playing with me, Lauren thought. They were getting off on this. The ultimate strip show. It was one thing to pay a girl money to take off her clothes, but to force her to play head games on stage without any cash, that was just plain unacceptable.

“Didn’t know that you answered to anybody,” Lauren said, pointing the gun at her husband. Her shoulder was now aching full force and her arm pulsated. “Didn’t know your boss was Jabba the Hut.”

Both men laughed, but Lauren was anything but amused, thinking about what Carl had said. Nobody knew about her connection to Winfield, Kansas, not even Jimmy, and nobody could have known, would even have wanted to know. Except for maybe someone with access to official papers. Government papers. So that’s why she was being toyed with and kept alive.

“Jimmy, you fool,” Lauren said, pulling the trigger.

The hammer clicked on the empty chamber, as she'd known it would. Both men roared again. "She went for it," Carl said. "Her own fucking husband. Who'd have believed it?"

"Thanks, doll," Jimmy grinned at her. "You just won me fifty bucks."

"Collect it in Hell," Lauren said, and tossed the gun toward him. Reflex made him grab for it as she pulled the Glock out of her waistband, tucked around the back where her jacket had kept it covered. She was a lousy shot and she knew it, but out of the four she blasted off in Jimmy's direction, one of them found a mark while he was still fumbling.

Jimmy was on the floor and making noises like a drain as she walked to the edge of the stage and stepped down before Carl. The white chick had shrieked and run and Carl was still struggling up out of his seat as Lauren drove him back into it with a single round, close range.

He clutched at his chest and cursed her.

She said. "That's no way to speak to a grieving widow," and shot him again. She saw no sign of the duffel bag.

She found it with the skinny dancer in a back office. More mirrors. The woman was under the desk and the phone was off the hook, the emergency dispatcher still on the line. Lauren cradled the receiver and pulled the stripper out of hiding.

"Nice try," she said, retrieving her property. "But your act needs work. Trust me. I've been there. Same club, same logo, different city." On the desk lay a bunch of keys with a BMW fob. She scooped them up and left the dancer sobbing.

For the second time that night, she drove back toward the crime scene.

The trail that she'd left — diner, car wreck, titty bar — would point the cops in a southbound direction. So she headed north, observed the speed limit, and put on her most innocent face.

Two motorcycle cops were now in attendance at the multiple wreck caused by Felipe's Impala, and they'd laid down flares to create a perimeter. One cop was waving cars through with a lightstick while the other checked distances with a laser tool.

At the diner, she slowed again. Here they'd shut off the entire road, and were diverting traffic around the block. News helicopters were jostling for airspace overhead. As she went by she could see bright lights and technicians in their scene suits, carrying bags of evidence out to waiting vehicles.

From the next gas station, she made a payphone call. The FBI operator took almost a minute to connect her to a cell.

"Hank," she said, "you bastard."

"Lauren," he said. "Way to break a two-year silence. I'm heading for Chicago. Your work, I assume."

"You're running up here to take the credit?"

"To seize a recording. Seems a woman was caught on camera outside the diner."

"You never meant for me to inform on Jimmy. You sent me in to ruin his luck."

"I never meant for you to marry him either, but you're a woman who can't keep her pants on her ass or her hands off easy money. I never saw a femme so fucking fatale. You're fast and you're toxic and you didn't disappoint. It was a joy to see you burn your way through the entire chain of command in just three days."

"So why rat me out at the end? So no one would get to walk away, including me?"

There was silence.

Then Hank said, "Keep the money, Lauren. You've earned it." And ended the call.

Before leaving the gas station she picked up a new duffel bag. Carl's blood was all over the first.

Later, in a Mom and Pop motel somewhere near Black River Falls, Lauren switched on a bedside light and closed the drapes and laid Felipe's bag on the covers. She opened the zip and reached in to transfer her money.

Lauren pulled out a bundle. It wasn't cash. She unrolled it.

It was a set of chef's whites, rolled up around a set of kitchen knives.

She rummaged about in disbelief but there was nothing else in the bag. Felipe hadn't run with the money.

Felipe had merely run.

She swore. She paced the room for a while. Remembering the sight of those crime scene techs, carrying evidence out of the diner. Then she opened the drapes and stood looking out into the night. The first signs of daylight were beginning to appear in the sky.

She'd have to bury or burn the whites and the duffel bag. But the knives, she'd keep. She'd find a use for them. She would hold onto the BMW for a while longer, but she'd change the plates.

Lauren Blaine stayed at the window for a long time, lost in her own thoughts.

Making her plans for Hank.

Content

Joel Goldman
Die, lover, die

Part One

Part Two