Damn You, Pepper. (standard:action, 6548 words)
Author: Oscar A Rat	Added: Jul 22 2020	Views/Reads: 1157/794	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
These three related stories are in Second Person POV. It is very graphic and violent. Second Person attempts to put the reader right into the story.

Click here to read the first 75 lines of the story

home to the wife ... if she'll have your sorry ass.” 

It takes a while, but all but two of you manage to stand. You step over
the others on your way out. Nobody thinks of helping the drunken 
bastards. Let the fuckers sleep. Three others aren't called. They must 
be in for more serious offenses. At night, no matter what the charge -- 
short of extreme violence -- if you're drunk you're likely to go in the 
“tank” to sober up. It's easier than hosing piss and vomit out of two 
cells. You should know. You were once a cop. 

Breakfast is alright. You eat at a long table, one of three in a large
room. It reminds you of an army mess hall. Just as cheap, too. Powdered 
eggs, two -- not three -- strips of burnt bacon, toast and coffee in a 
tin cup. 

There are three choices when drinking from a tin cup. You can wait for
it to cool, add cold water, or drink it like a man, ignoring a burnt 
lip. You add water from a jug on the line. 

After that, you're taken to the desk and given a bag of possessions.
Yours contains a wallet but -- surprise -- no money. Pepper, Pepper, 
Pepper. Bad girl, Pepper. I'll find you, Pepper. 

“And your boat waits down by the key. The winds of night so softly are
sighing-- Soon they will fly your troubles to sea.” 

When I do, Pepper, your troubles will be beginning. 

*** 

After going home to clean up, you go back to the hotel, knowing she
won't be there and that they never heard of her. 

She made two mistakes last night. First, you were found in an alley a
block away. She's too small to carry a guy like you that far. Also, the 
night clerk greeted her by name. Not only that, but asked her about her 
kids. Of course he didn't want you waking up at the hotel. These 
short-time hotels don't like cops around. Angry drunks attract more 
fuzz than a vacuum cleaner. 

There's another guy at the desk. A fat turd watching tv. 

“It fills the sails of boats that are waiting-- Waiting to sail your
worries away. It isn't far to Hushabye Mountain And your boat waits 
down by the key. The winds of night so softly are sighing-- Soon they 
will fly your troubles to sea. “ 

That same song again. It must be the big hit of ‘68 or something. 

“I was rolled here last night,” you tell him. “I need a name.” 

“Get lost. I wasn't working last night.” 

“No shit. I need a name.” 

“They come and go. I don't ask for names. They pay by the half-hour.” 

You reach over the counter, clicking the television off. 

“What'a hell.” He tries to jump to his feet but it's like moving a
mountain of suet with a teaspoon, slow and ponderous. As his head rises 
above the counter, you grab his collar and slam a fat chin against the 
edge. 

“Then, an address.” 

“Lemme go, asshole. How'm I gonna know any fuckin' address? For Christ
sake, I don't even know her name.” 

You pull his chin closer, tweaking that fat nose with the index finger
of your other hand. “Not hers, his. The night clerk.” 

“I can't give you that. Company poli--” 

“You wanna clean blood, yours, off'a this floor? A name. Ain't your ass
... or is it?” 

“Yeah, yeah. Leggo so's I can get it.” 

When he gets and writes it down for you, you drop a double-sawbuck on
the counter. 

“This ain't for the name. This, this is so you don't get antsy and call
him. You do, an I find out, I'll be back ... and I'll be packing.” You 
pull your aloha shirttail up, showing him the butt of a .38 Police 
Special. The holster sports an embossed picture of a badge. 

“You a cop? Why the fuck you didn't say so?” 

“Why the fuck didn't you ask?” 

Let him believe what he wants to believe. The idiot. It's your old
service revolver. You bought it with your own money and didn't turn it 
in when you quit. The holster was stolen, but fuck them. 

*** 

Getting out of a taxi a couple blocks from that fucking clerk's address,
you walk the difference. Things go wrong, you've learned long ago not 
to leave trails. It's second nature, done without thought. 

A cheap residential area, you cautiously pass a gang'a teens. Careful,
you think, no eye contact. As when in jail, eye contact means one of 
two things, you want sex or you want to fight. No eye contact. You 
ignore them, walking quickly and firmly along the outer edge of a 
cracked sidewalk and ignoring pleas for cash. “Man, ya got a buck'a two 
ta spare, man?” And, “cheap asshole, ain't he?” 

The building's old, covered with a simulated-brick facade, popular in
the fifties. Your parents fell for the con. “See,” the salesman said, 
“We'll give you a really good rate for the work. Then, whenever anyone 
else on this street sees how wonderful it looks, you refer them to us 
and get $1,000 cash, instantly.” Course, several other homeowners 
bought it the same fucking time we did and we got diddly-shit. 

No lock on the front entrance. You go in to find the bottom floor has
been cut into small cubes mixed with narrow walkways. The partitions 
stop three feet from the ceiling. You, being tall enough to look over 
the tops, see they're each about seven-feet-square inside. Stairs in 
the rear lead upstairs. Prolly the same up there. A warehouse for lost 
souls. 

You see an old white-haired Asian in one of the first small rooms, door
open, sitting in his underwear and watching a tiny tv. The television, 
a narrow bed, a few cardboard boxes and a small table are all you can 
see inside. As he turns, you can't miss a wizened pecker peeking from a 
hole in dirty jockey shorts. “Hey!” you ask, “where can I find this 
Adam James?” 

“Him? Jamesy? Room 15, left rear. He's probably asleep, though. Worked
last night.” 

“Prolly is.” 

Thank God, you think, the rooms are mostly numbered, a few with plastic
digits, some with a magic marker. 

You don't bother knocking. There's no knob on the door, only a handle
like on a cupboard. You grab it with one hand, the top of the door with 
the other and yank. With a screeching and shaking of plywood, a cheap 
sliding bolt comes loose and the door jerks open. 

The hotel clerk is in there, eyes open in fear as he sees you standing,
hovering over him. There's also a very young fluff, maybe fifteen, half 
on top of the bastard. Her dark ass reminds you of a pair of tacos 
waiting for that first delicious bite. 

“Hit the road, senorita,” you say, grabbing a taco and pulling the
entire meal onto the floor. “I gotta bone ta pick with lover-boy, 
here.” When she hesitates, looking back at her lover, you growl, “Beat 
it, honey, and I do mean now.” 

“Now look here, man. What'a hell you think--” 

A slap across his face shuts him up. 

“The girl. Pepper. Where the fuck she live?” 

“How the hell should I know?” 

Again, you show your holstered weapon. Shit, how people see that
simulated badge and think, “Cop!” Nothing illegal at all. You have a 
carry permit and don't actually say you're a policeman. “An inquiring 
mind would like to know.” 

“So? You ain't got nothin' on me. Fuck off.” 

“What about little Chiquita, there. Her momma know she's sleeping
around?” 

“Fucker. You can try the 3,000 block of Elm. On'a corner.” 

“Be more specific, uh?” 

“I dunno, really don't. I drove her home a couple times, never been
inside. Her, two kids, no man at I knows of.” 

You grab the bastard by the throat, almost rubbing noses like'a Eskimos.
“Go find your little Mex breakfast, if you can. Don't, whatever you 
fucking do, even think of calling Pepper.” 

Seeing fear in tearing rapidly-shifting eyes, you drop him onto the bed
and leave. 

*** 

3201 Elm. Just your luck. A four-story walk-up and guess which floor is
hers? Cheap bitch. 

As you tromp onto the landing, you hear a radio playing through an open
doorway. There's a kid sitting outside on a bare wooden floor, playing 
with cardboard soldiers. 

“...your boat waits down by the key. The winds of night so softly are
sighing-- Soon they will fly your troubles to sea. So close your eyes 
on Hushabye Mountain. Wave good-bye to cares of the day. And watch your 
boat from Hushabye Mountain Sail far away from lullaby bay.” 

That damned song again. You're getting sick of hearing it. Brushing past
the kid, you go in. A six or seven-year-old girl is in there, coloring 
in a book. You reach over and snap the radio off. 

“Where's your mama?” 

The kid doesn't even look up. She's probably used to seeing strange men
around. A hand raises and she points. “Bedroom. I gotta go, huh?” 

“Yeah.” You peel a few ones off your roll and hand them over. “Take in a
movie, kid. And take your brother.” 

You watch until they're out of sight down the stairwell before going
back in, then closing and locking the door with a slide-bolt. 

There's a woman sleeping in the bedroom. Her head's half under the
pillow, so you grab her by the hair and turn it. It's Pepper. Her eyes 
bug out at seeing you. 

“You.” Not very original. “What you want?” 

“My money.” 

“Jesus Christ. How the hell you find me?” 

You grab a dirty-gray blanket and pull it off, giving yourself a cheap
porno shot of her in pink panties. 

“The money,” you repeat. “Only the money.” 

“In the dresser. Top drawer. You ain't gonna beat me, are you? I got
kids to feed.” 

“No. All I want is the cash. Now get up and get it.” 

“All right. Just don't hit me. I ain't got any other way to pay the rent
and all three of us gotta eat.” 

She pulls out a drawer, reaches in and comes out with a metal box. You
see it's half-full of cash, much more than was stolen from you.” 

As she starts counting it out, you reach over and grab the box. The
entire contents go into your jacket pocket. 

“You bast--” Screaming like a banshee, she comes at you, only to be
bitch-slapped into a wall. Shaking her head, she comes back for more, 
getting it in the form of a fist to the gut. Folding over, she slumps 
to the floor, crying. “Please. Leave me something. For the kids.” 

“Tough shit,” you tell her, walking out of the room. On the second-floor
landing, you hear music. 

A gentle breeze from Hushabye Mountain Softly blows o'er lullaby bay. It
fills the sails of boats that are waiting-- Waiting to sail your 
worries away. It isn't far to Hushabye Mountain And your boat waits 
down by the key. The winds of night so softly are sighing-- 

“Keep on dreaming, baby.” You shake your head. 

The End. 

“Hushabye Mountain,” song by Robert and Richard Sherman 

=================== A continuation of my second person story of a man
robbed by a hooker tracking her down and revenging himself. “Tough 
Shit, Pepper." ---------------------------- 

Pepper the whore taken care of, you check your watch. Damn. Only a
couple hours before you have to be at work. Enough time for a meal. 

Grabbing a cab, you settle into the backseat. “Sixth and Main.” 

A hard night and still hungover, you nod off for a few minutes. When you
wake, you find a fucking cow pasture zipping by between poles. “What'a 
hell,” you shout, “we doin' here?” 

“Shortcut,” the driver explains. 

“Bullshit.” You look over his shoulder at the meter. Seven-plus miles.
It's a two mile trip. It's your city. You know the streets well. 

You grab the bastard around the neck, using one hand. Your other shoves
a corner of your Zippo lighter against the back of his head. “Guess 
what, cocksucker. You better hit that meter. You're taking me there for 
free. Aren't you?” 

He says nothing but you can feel him quivering. He turns left at the
next corner, you sitting back, hoping he's not too nervous to drive. 

A half-block from the diner, you tell him to, “Pull over,” and get out. 

“Thanks for nothing,” you mutter. 

As you walk, you hear tires squealing and see a gray streak as the taxi
spins out of sight. 

“Bastards.” 

As always, you stand back, looking through the front windows of the
eatery before going in. Nothing but tourist and worker types. Nobody 
seems to be looking around, as if for someone. No eyes shifting right 
to left, or the reverse. No one sitting slumped over coffee, hats 
pulled down. No cops in civies. Good. 

Going inside, you take your regular corner booth near the left-end exit.
Expecting you, Max has stacked a couple of empty boxes on it to keep 
customers away. No need. Plenty of empty seats around. 

You nod at Max, the owner, standing behind the counter, itself extending
most of the length of the narrow diner. He points upward, over his 
head, at the daily special and you nod. Swiss steak. Better than 
yesterday's stew, a composite called refrigerator stew including any 
leftovers from the week before. It's Max's way of cleaning out his 
icebox. 

A few minutes later, he comes over with a tray containing your meal,
gravy sloshed from the meal to a saucer containing a couple slices of 
bread. 

“I'll get you more bread,” he says. 

“Don't bother.” You smile, in familiar territory. You know that in case
of trouble the ex-marine stores a sawed-off under the counter. You gave 
it to him. Taken off a clumsy mugger. 

“Jimmy was here, looking for you.” 

“Jimmy talks too fucking much.” 

“That he does.” 

As you eat, you casually keep an eye on other customers, subconsciously
trying to tell if they're doing the same with you. You recognize most 
of them. Several factories in the neighborhood, the same workers 
routinely eating there. 

A couple of teens sit in one booth, eyes on each other. They wouldn't
see you if you were on fire. 

It's one of the few places you can relax. Except, possibly, for that one
last time. The time you want to avoid. 

Finished, you stand and nod at Max. No need to pay. He has you on a tab.
You leave by the side door, hearing it slam behind you. 

Down an alley and over two blocks brings you to an abandoned house,
boarded up with plywood over windows and doors. The panel on a side 
door is on hidden hinges. After looking around you go in. 

“Twinkie? It's me.” The words echo through empty rooms, bouncing back at
you. You wait. 

“Come on in,” comes from a side room. 

Twinkie, all simpering six-foot-six 230 lbs of pure muscular homosexual,
is lying on a ratty couch, watching TV. Seeing you, he snaps it off. 

“Johnny and Simms brought the shit in last night,” he says. “I admit,
I'm nervous as hell having it around.” 

“When's it going down?” 

“Buyers are due across the street at three. Pete's outside watching for
them. After they been there a while, sure it's safe with no surprises 
lurking, he'll bring them here.” He stands, stretching to rub both 
hands across the ceiling. “Joe's up with the product.” 

“He gonna be in'na wall with me?” 

“Yeah. Least Pete will. Soon's he lets them in.” He waves hands,
indicating both sides of the room. "One'a you on each side. 

You make small-talk with Twinkie for a few minutes, then go into another
room, the one on the left of Twinkie's. 

One reason for the empty house is that there are firing ports in three
of the walls leading into the selling room. The buyers will know that 
one or more of those holes shields a man with a gun, but not which one 
or how many. That arrangement certainly keeps hijacking down. In this 
case it will be you and Pete. 

You're still carrying your old SW Police Special, but don't want to use
it unless necessary. The ballistics can be traced back to your old cop 
job. Instead, you find a Mini-Uzi lying on a table, along with 
thin-plastic surgical gloves. Putting them on, you light a cigarette 
and go over to the firing port to wait. 

“Shit.” You smell burning plastic as the coal gets too close to a
finger. Christ. You can't help being a little nervous. But it pays 
well, which is what counts. 

A cellphone buzzes. Twinkie answers, listens a minute and calls out,
“They's coming. I'll tell Pete to bring at shit down.” 

The Uzi's greasy cold metal is hard to hold onto with these gloves. You
mentally curse yourself for not noticing earlier. Small and light, that 
9mm has a good enough kick on auto without taking a chance of it 
slipping out of your hands at a crucial moment. You look around, not 
finding any rags in the room. Newspapers in a corner won't do. You use 
your handkerchief between metal and fingers. 

Almost simultaneously, you hear a door opening in the selling room, as
well as footsteps coming down from the second floor. A silhouette that 
must be Joe passes your doorway. 

Looking through a hole, you see Pete entering, two men in casual work
clothes behind him. He nods and leaves your sight. You hear a door 
close on the other side of that room. 

Now is the time to be nervous. The transaction is going down as planned.
Not so, though, as you feel Adrenalin course through your veins, 
calmness and a lack of time-sense settling over you as you keep your 
eye to the hole, Uzi hanging by your side. 

One of the strangers carries a large plastic grocery-bag which he sits
on the couch next to Twinkie. 

That's when things begin happening. 

You're alerted by a strange sound at the staircase. Against orders, you
take your eyes from the firing-port, raising the gun to cover your own 
doorway. It's a sixth sense. Something isn't right. 

When Pete comes in, a pistol raised, you give him two taps to the head.
He shouldn't be there. He should be in another room, eyes to firing 
port. At the same time, you scream out, “Twinkie.” 

A moment later, shots come from the selling room. You don't bother to
look as you jam your Uzi into a hole and blast across that ceiling. 
When you do look inside, you see the strangers lying on the floor, 
Twinkie crouching, half-seen, behind the couch. 

Stepping over Pete's body, you rush in, across to the door to look
outside. Two men are getting out of a green Ford. When they see you, 
with your weapon, they get back in and speed off, leaving rubber 
behind. 

Twinkie's unhurt, though Joe's dead, his throat slit ear-to-ear. 

“Thanks for warning me,” Twinkie says. “Gave me enough time to draw
first.” 

“What happened?” 

“Someone must'a got to Pete.” 

“Proly. Now what? You need me?” 

He stoops to where the bag has spilled cash across one corner of the
couch. At least they did bring the money. Probably in case the hijack 
had to be abandoned. He grabs a good-sized chunk and hands it to you. 

“Na. The Wops got a cleanup squad I can call on. They's pros at that
cleanup shit. Looks like we came up on top, both product and money.” 

“Yeah.” Twinkie likes it, but it was too fucking close for you. 

You pocket the cash and leave. In that neighborhood, it's not likely
cops will be called. 

================= A continuation of my second person “Tough Shit,
Pepper," story about a hardboiled criminal type. Now, here's a third: 
------------- It's cold. Collar pulled up to the max, padded cap 
covering ears down to your chin, you stand, hands jammed inside a 
furred jacket while watching the rear of a dark Holiday Inn parking 
lot. 

You stayed there once, noticing a change in shift at eleven pm as desk
clerks rotated. It's now 11:22 and you're still waiting in the shadows 
in a dooway of a maintenance shack. “What's keeping the bastard?” you 
mutter to yourself, eyes roving, constantly roving. 

Jimmy dropped you off a half-hour ago and you've been waiting ever since
for a gray four-year-old Ford to show. You're on a tight schedule, a 
package waiting for pickup. 

Just as you see headlights circling around the building in your
direction, you also see the flashlight of a uniformed security guard 
making rounds. You hope to hell this shed isn't on his route. Not being 
a guest, you have no excuse for being here. 

Oh, you have no doubt you could take him out, but it would be a loose
end, to be avoided. You don't want to kill him and when he wakes or 
gets loose the car will be hot. With a body waiting, you can't abort. 
Your only way out is to steal that fucking car, belonging to the 
midnight shift desk clerk. The nearest town is too far away to walk and 
calling a taxi would screw up your mission. 

An oncoming vehicle's lights flash past you as the car pulls into a
parking space at the rear of the lot. Most such businesses insist 
employees park at the rear to leave closer spaces for customers. A man 
gets out of the Ford, your target vehicle, the new desk clerk. Slamming 
the door, he hurries toward the rear of the building. 

The guard turns, light flashing over a woman wearing a dark coat
bringing a suitcase out of a parked vehicle. Christ! How did you miss 
her? You're slipping. 

The two talk for a few moments, snatches of conversation and a few
laughs reaching you as you wait, shivering. Then, thank god, the guard 
continues, walking the other way. The woman follows the clerk through a 
back door into the hotel as he holds a door open for her. Nervous, you 
look around carefully, finding you have the lot to yourself. 

Within a minute, you're in the clear and testing the doors of the Ford.
A rear door is unlocked, giving you easy access to crawl over the seat 
and sit in the driver position. You have a battery-operated vibrator 
that makes quick work of the ignition. 

Heart beating fast, you use a penlight to check over the controls.  Many
car thieves make the mistake of stealing a vehicle and not knowing such 
simple things as how to turn on window wipers or even lights. You don't 
make that mistake. Besides, you want to give the guard plenty of time 
to make his rounds and settle into a comfy chair inside. 

Slowly circling the lot, you make it around the building and enter
traffic on the highway. You figure to have up to eight hours before the 
car hits the hot list. Of course you're wearing gloves in this weather. 
All your outer clothing is new, right out of the package and 
disposable. In these days of micro-forensics, you want to leave nothing 
of yourself behind. Not hair nor sweat. 

*** 

“It's your garbage, you put it in,” you tell a black-skinned youth.
Although he and a Mex companion glare at you, they load the bodies of 
Marcello Antipasto and his fluff into the trunk of the Ford. Your job 
is to drive, not fuck with the trash. 

“Not very friendly, are you, man?” the Mex asks. You don't bother
answering. In this job, friendly might mean dead. 

“The gun?” 

The black dude hands you a Glock, barehanded. You take a package of new
hankies out of your pocket. Tearing them open, you stuff all but one 
back into the pocket, wipe the weapon carefully and put it into the 
plastic hankie bag. The now-oily handkerchief goes back into your coat 
pocket. 

You don't give a damn about those two being caught by prints, but police
catching them might get that much closer to you. You can't help 
wondering about all the traces they've left on the corpses. Tough shit. 
You're not about to screw around cleaning bodies, nor have the time to 
do it. 

“What you goin' ta do with ‘um?” the Mex asks. 

“Is there a reason you have to know?” you answer, testing the trunk lock
and returning to the front of the vehicle.” 

He shrugs as you get in and drive off. As you enter the highway, you
toss the gun under your seat, putting the bag back into your pocket. 

*** 

All goes well as you return to the highway. You drive for hours, really
needing a smoke but not daring to light up. Forensics goes ape-shit 
over discarded cigarette butts. 

“Damn,” you exclaim, noticing the fuel gauge nearing empty. Nothing for
it. You have to stop for gasoline. You do have enough to wait for the 
sun to come up. It's already near morning. You know that most stations 
have security cameras. As well as the Ford might be reported as stolen 
already. What can you do? 

Only one solution. All that prior planning going to waste. You'll never
make it to the dump site on time, unseen or recorded. 

Wait! You see a 24 hour discount store. Going in, you buy $50 of
miscellaneous items and groceries, including two plastic 5-gallon gas 
cans. Later, you see a gas station with its lights on off of but close 
to the highway. You park a block or so away from it and walk over to 
fill the cans. 

Sighing with relief, you're soon back on the highway but with another
problem -- the cans and junk from the store. If you simply dump them, 
police might be called. Nobody dumps $50 of new items and groceries. A 
perfect example of how one simple mistake can lead to a dozen more. 
Usually, you're more thorough. 

As the sun comes up you realize you're far behind schedule. That desk
clerk must be off work by now and have reported his Ford being stolen. 
That was hundreds of miles away but the police are efficient. And, of 
course, you've got two bodies in your trunk. 

Choosing to go through the next city, you pull off the highway to look
for a place to get rid of the trash from the store. An apartment 
complex is inviting but you know they also use security cameras. Newly 
purchased items in the trash are suspicious, as are strange cars 
circling around that early in the morning. 

You know from television shows that the most mundane items can be
traced. Such as in police checking out gas cans bought along your route 
from the pickup point, which, incidentally, has been in a fairly 
straight line along the same highway. Not too many of them will have 
been purchased along that route during the night. You can't leave them 
in the vehicle. Police can trace them back to the store ... and its 
security cameras. 

Stopping at a series of store dumpsters, you find them all locked. 

Finding yourself in a low-income area, you're becoming desperate. 

At last, you find a street containing filled trash cans at the curb. You
have to take a chance. Stopping along the street, you shove a few items 
each down into a series of cans. The large red cans are left near a 
garage. 

Turning into a business district, you park along a street then walk a
few businesses down to an open fast food place. After screwing around 
all night and being already late, you're starving. And you still have 
to search for an alternate place to dump the stiffs. Damn, a once 
simple task becoming ever more complex. 

Finished eating, you walk back while enjoying a welcome smoke, looking
carefully for unmarked police cars. To your surprise, you find the Ford 
gone. 

Christ. Someone stole the damned thing. You have to laugh. They're in
for a surprise. 

There's nothing further you can do. It's out of your control. Later,
you'll read of a trio of teenage gangbangers being held on murder 
charges, and laugh again. 

The End. Charlie 

It's cold. Collar pulled up to the max, padded cap covering ears down to
your chin, you stand, hands jammed inside a furred jacket, watching the 
rear of a Holiday Inn parking lot. 

You stayed there once, noticing a change in shift at eleven pm as desk
clerks rotated. It's now 11:22 and you're still waiting in the shadows 
in a small alcove of a maintenance shack. “What's keeping the bastard?” 
you mutter to yourself, eyes roving, constantly roving. 

Jimmy dropped you off a half-hour ago and you've been waiting ever since
for a gray four-year-old Ford to show. You're on a tight schedule, a 
package waiting for pickup. 

Just as you see headlights circling around the building in your
direction, you also see the flashlight of a uniformed security guard 
making rounds. You hope to hell this shed isn't on his route. Not being 
a guest, you'd have no excuse for being here. 

Oh, you have no doubt you could take the fucker, but it would be a loose
end, to be avoided. You can't kill him and when he wakes or gets loose 
you'll be hot. With a body waiting in the trunk, you can't abort. Your 
only way out is to steal that fucking car. The nearest town is too far 
away to walk. 

The oncoming vehicle's lights flash past you as the car finally pulls
into a parking space at the rear of the lot. Most such businesses 
insist employees park at the rear to leave closer spaces for customers. 
 A man gets out of the Ford, your target vehicle. Slamming the door, he 
hurries toward the rear of the building. 

The guard turns, light flashing over a woman wearing a dark coat.
Christ. How did you miss her? You're slipping. 

The two talk for a few minutes, snatches of conversation and a few
laughs reaching you as you wait, shivering. Then, thank god, the guard 
continues, walking the other way. The woman comes toward you to enter a 
light-colored SUV. 

Within a couple of minutes, you're in the clear and testing the doors of
the Ford. A rear door is unlocked, giving you easy access to crawl over 
the seat and sit in the driver position. You have a battery-operated 
vibrator that makes quick work of the ignition. 

Heart beating fast, you use a penlight to check over the controls.  Many
car thieves make the mistake of stealing a vehicle and not knowing such 
simple things as how to turn on window wipers or even lights. You don't 
make that mistake. Besides, you want to give the guard plenty of time 
to make his rounds and settle into a comfy chair inside. 

Slowly circling the lot, you make it around the building and enter
traffic on the highway. You figure to have up to eight hours before the 
car hits the hot list. Of course you're wearing gloves in this weather. 
All your clothing is new, right out of the package and disposable. In 
these days of micro-forensics, you want to leave nothing of yourself 
behind. Not hair nor sweat. 

*** 

“It's your garbage, you load it,” you tell a black-skinned youth.
Although he and a Mex companion glare at you, they load the bodies of 
Marcello Antipasto and his fluff into the trunk of the Ford. Your job 
is to drive, not fuck with the trash. 

“Not very friendly, are you, man?” the Mex asks. You don't bother
answering. In this job, friendly might mean dead. 

“The gun.” 

The black dude hands you a Glock, barehanded. You take a package of new
hankies out of your pocket. Tearing them open, you stuff all but one 
back into the pocket, wipe the weapon carefully and put it into the 
hankie bag. The oily handkerchief goes back into your coat pocket. You 
don't give a damn about those two being caught by prints, but police 
catching them might get that much closer to you. You can't help 
wondering about all the traces they've left on the bodies. Tough shit. 
You're not about to screw around cleaning bodies, nor have time to do 
it. 

“What you goin' ta do with ‘um?” the Mex asks. 

“Is there a reason you have to know?” you answer, testing the trunk lock
and returning to the front of the vehicle.” 

He shrugs as you get in and drive off. As you enter the highway, you
toss the gun under a seat, putting the bag back into your pocket. 

*** 

All goes well as you return to the highway. You drive for hours, really
needing a smoke but not daring to light up. 

“Damn,” you exclaim, noticing the fuel gage nearing empty. Nothing for
it. You have to stop for gasoline. You have enough to wait for the sun 
to come up. It's already near morning. You know that most stations have 
security cameras. As well as the Ford might be reported as stolen 
already. What can you do? 

Only one solution, you think. All that prior planning going to waste.
You'll never make it to the dump site unseen or recorded. 

Wait. You see a 24 hour discount store. Going in, you buy $50 of
miscellaneous items and groceries, including two 5-gallon gas cans. 
Later, you see a gas station with its lights on off of but close to the 
highway. You park a block or so away from it and walk over to fill the 
cans. 

Sighing with relief, you're soon back on the highway but with another
problem -- the cans and junk from the store. If you simply dump them, 
police might be called. Nobody dumps $50 of new items and groceries. A 
perfect example of how one simple mistake can lead to a dozen more. 
Usually, you're more thorough. 

As the sun comes up, you realize you're behind schedule. That desk clerk
must be off work by now and have reported his Ford being stolen. That 
was hundreds of miles away but the police are efficient. And, of 
course, you've got two bodies in your trunk. 

Choosing to go through the next big city, you look for a place to get
rid of the trash from the store. An apartment complex is inviting but 
you know they also use security cameras. New items in the trash are 
suspicious, as are strange cars circling around that early in the 
morning. 

You know from television shows that the most mundane items can be
traced. Such as in police checking out gas cans bought along your route 
from the pickup point, which, incidentally, has been in a fairly 
straight line along the same highway. Not too many of them will have 
been purchased along that route during the night. You can't leave them 
in the vehicle. 

Stopping at a series of store dumpsters, you find them all locked. 

Finding yourself in a low-income area, you're becoming desperate. 

At last, you find a street containing filled trash cans at the curb. You
have to take a chance. Stopping along the street, you dump a few items 
each in a series of cans. 

Turning into a business district, you park in a convenience store
parking lot then walk a few stores down to an open fast food place. 
After screwing around all night, you're starving. 

Finished, you walk back, looking carefully for plain police cars. To
your surprise, you find the Ford gone. 

Christ, you think, someone stole the damned thing. They're sure in for a
surprise. 

There's nothing further you can do. It's out of your control. Later,
you'll hear of a trio of gangbangers being held on murder charges, and 
laugh. 

The End.


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