Apparently, quite stupid.
Landscape lights in one of the driveways make it look like the end of a runway, but I’m not coming in for a landing. It’s a trap, it’s a trap, it’s a trap! My brain is racing, berating me for being so air-brained. Why did I turn onto a dead-end street? Am I insane? Do I want to be raped and pillaged? Jesus, I need to get my head examined when this is all over. I just hope it’s still going to be attached to my body tomorrow.
As I reach the first part of the circle, I slow down, giving the car behind me enough time to catch up, hoping to catch a glimpse of him when I go in the opposite direction. This time he leaves his headlights on.
Slowly, slowly, I make my way around the circle, praying he’ll turn into one of the driveways, stop his car, get out, and walk in his front door. I’ll laugh all the way back to my place and go to sleep after a long bath filled with bubbles if that happens. I might even honk my horn as I drive by, thanking him for the tour of his lovely neighborhood.
The other car approaches. It doesn’t pull into any driveways, it just keeps coming.
My headlights swing over, and I finally see the man behind the wheel through his windshield. And the gun he’s holding up by his shoulder.
I scream and duck down below the level of the dashboard, slamming the accelerator to the floor and surging forward like a bat flying out of hell. The engine whines as the RPMs climb, so I slam the shifter into third gear, giving the car another few horses to run with as I race down the street in the other direction. I pray I’m going straight and not aimed for someone’s mailbox.
A loud crack comes to my ears and then there’s a bang against my door. It takes less than a second for me to put it all together. Felix starts barking at the same time I begin screaming. “Oh my god, he shot at me! He actually shot a gun at me, that asshole!”
I have to sit up so I can see to drive, but I hunch down as much as possible, praying my headrest will stop a bullet from entering my brain. I look like Quasimodo driving the getaway car in a bank robbery gone really wrong.
“If you shoot my dog, I will destroy you!” I roar, downshifting as I take a corner way too fast. Obviously this whole scenario has unbalanced me a bit. “Felix, get down out of that window, right now! Come here! Come, you mangy mutt!”
My tires squeal as I take the next turn that will get me out of this neighborhood and as far from my house as I can be. Felix’s claws scramble for purchase. When I hear his little body hit the floor of the back seat, I know he’s lost the battle. I’m happy he’s out of the line of fire though, so I keep going, throwing the car into fourth when I hit a straightaway.
When I bought my Chevy Sonic hatchback a few months ago, I thought I was being practical and responsible, but now, as it hugs the next corner and shoots off like a rocket in second gear, I give my thanks to the gods of General Motors that they had the good sense to put so many strong horses under this hood.
The distance between me and the maniac grows rapidly. After three more turns and me driving like I’m trying out for the Formula One circuit, I feel like I have enough time to pull out my phone and press the green button. It’s not the cops, but in my crazy panicked mind, it’s the next best thing.
A gruff voice answers. “This better be good,” it says.
“Are you the guy with the horrible beard?” I ask, my voice breathless and way too high. Felix whines. I’m probably hurting his sensitive ears, poor little guy.
“Come again?”
Good. He sounds confused. I’m happy to know I’m not the only idiot in the room.
“You’re the Bourbon Street guy, right? Well, I’m the bimbo with the dog from the bar, who’s not a bimbo by the way. I need your help. Again.”
“What’s going on?” He’s all seriousness now.
“Some guy followed me in his car and shot at me. With a gun.”
“Where are you?”
“I don’t know. I was going home, but then I noticed him following me, so I didn’t go home. I kind of got lost in this other neighborhood.”
“Good girl. Hang up. I’ll call you back.”
And just like that he’s gone. So much for my rescue party.
In between shifting from one gear to another and then one more, I glance at the phone a couple times. I don’t know what the hell just happened with The Beard, but I’m pretty sure I’m screwed now. Stupid penny-pinching me, I didn’t spring for the GPS when I bought my car, and so now I can’t find my way out of this suburban maze. And the guy who I thought could help me just disconnected my call.
Dammit! Why is this happening to me?!
My phone rings, the sound cutting through the haze of my panic. I answer, almost dropping the phone in my haste to put it to my ear.
“Hello!” I scream.
“Take a left at the next main street.” He’s way calmer than I am.
“Take a left . . .?” I hold the phone out and look at it for a second before putting it back to my ear. “What are you talking about?!”
“Take a left!” the voice roars.
I grab the wheel with both hands, the cell phone squashed against the leather wrapping, and yank to the left. A quick downshift has us powering down the street, now headed north if my dashboard’s digital compass is accurate.
“How do you know I had to take a left?” I can barely see straight, I’m huffing and puffing so much. My frantic respirations are making me dizzy. I look in my rearview mirror but see nothing but blackness. There’s a loud ringing in my ears. I think it’s my blood pressure about to explode my veins.
“I’m tracking your cell signal,” says the faint voice from my phone. “Take a right on Wilson Avenue.” The roar in my ears calms just a little.
The glowing white letters on a green background appear on a street sign above me. I barely have time to slow before I have to take the turn. My tires leave a little rubber behind.
“Keep going about a half mile until you get to Lincoln,” says my savior. “Take a left there.”
“Where are you guiding me?” I’m not one hundred percent sure that following these directions are the best option for me, but it’s the only option I can see clearly right now. My mind is in a blind panic.
“To my place. You’ll be safe here.”
When he says it in that slightly tired but soothing voice of his, I almost believe him, despite the beard.
CHAPTER FIVE
Twenty minutes later I’m driving up to a building in a somewhat questionable part of town, at the Port of New Orleans on the Mississippi River. Why am I not at a police station? Well, because I don’t know where one is. And I’m obviously crazy. I keep thinking that if I continue to drive around aimlessly, I’m going to aim myself right into that murderer’s arms. I need to find a safe haven. Why I think this bearded guy is my answer, I can’t say for sure. It just feels right. Righter than going home, righter than calling the cops, and definitely righter than going to my sister’s house.
“This can’t be right,” I say out loud.
I was talking to myself, but The Beard responds. “It’s right. I can see you outside the window. Drive inside.”
As he says that, a giant door attached to the warehouse in front of me starts to slide open. I don’t think it’s a person moving it manually, because it’s sliding too smoothly and there’s an electric whine coming from somewhere and making its way into my car through the crack in my window.
It’s humid out tonight, and I’d normally be using my air conditioner, but I needed to be able to hear the instructions I was being given over my cell’s speakerphone, so I left it off. Now I wish I’d just turned up the volume instead, because I’m sure there are sweat stains in my armpits and probably everywhere else too.
As I wait for the door to open wide enough to admit Felix and me, I wipe the sweat from my temples. I’ve probably lost about three pounds of water weight with all the freaking out I’ve done over the last half hour. I’m still not even sure I know what’s going on, although I have my suspici
ons. I’m guessing I got caught up in a drug deal gone bad or something like that. I just pray this guy with the beard isn’t the dealer. I don’t think he is.
I’m really not sure why I’ve let myself believe he’s one of the good guys. I should probably be more cautious and not just drive into his Batcave and let the door shut behind me. But he did try to save me when the bullets started flying. He could totally have left me there to be filled with holes. That has to mean something, right?
“I don’t think I’m going to drive in,” I say, looking to my left and right, trying to decide if I should just take off and find my way home. Or I could go to a hotel. That would be safe. Safer than this place, probably. This looks like a good spot to murder someone. No people around, relatively quiet. My murderer could start up a loud motor to cover the sound of my screams. Or maybe I wouldn’t have time to scream. Maybe it’d all be over in an instant.
I start freaking out all over again. I swear I can smell B.O. now too. Ugh.
“You don’t have to come in if you don’t want to,” he says, “but I would if I were you.”
“Why?”
“Because your car is easy to spot by anyone who might be looking for it.”
I bark out a quick laugh. This is getting ridiculous. “As if someone could find me way out here. I left that guy behind in suburbia twenty minutes ago.” I look in my rearview mirror just to be sure.
“That guy doesn’t work alone. He has associates all over the city. All he has to do is put the word out to look for your car, and you’ll be found. That bright red is kind of hard to miss.”
My heart sinks and my voice doesn’t seem to want to work very well. It comes out as a squeak. “Are you serious? Who is he? And why does he want to find me? I’m no one. I don’t even smoke pot. I don’t even smoke anything, for God’s sake.”
“Drive in,” says the voice, like it has lost patience with me.
Felix whines.
I reach over and scratch him under his tiny chin. “Just relax, buddy. Everything’s going to be fine.”
“Are you telling me to relax?” He sounds a little incredulous.
“No, I’m telling Felix to relax.”
“Who’s Felix? I thought you were alone.”
“Felix is my dog. I’m coming in.” I decide to do it for Fee. He doesn’t deserve to be hunted down like a dog, even if he is a tiny angel wearing a canine costume.
Putting the car in first gear, I slowly roll past the large door that’s finally finished opening. As soon as the rear bumper is past, it begins to close. As I watch it slide into place behind me, I try to keep my respirations at a normal level, but it’s difficult. I’m afraid I’ve just sealed my doom by coming into this place. A quick look around my car confirms that I have no weapons at my disposal. The best I can hope for is that Felix will bite my attacker’s ankle before he’s sent heaven bound with me.
I quickly tap out a message to my sister.
Me: Can’t come for wine. I’m in a building at the port. If you don’t hear from me tomorrow morning, call the cops.
I’m about to press the “Send” button, but then I hesitate. I think about her and the kids and the fact that she really has no backup for babysitting purposes, and how she’s barely hanging on to her sanity by a string sometimes. The last thing she needs in her life is me going off the rails.
I read my message again, wondering if I should send it off.
Nope. Can’t do it. She’ll see this text and freak out, guaranteed. No way can I launch it like this. I hit the backspace key and try again, thinking about what I can say that will not alert her to anything being wrong, but will also guarantee that someone will come looking for me sooner rather than later if I fail to make it back to the real world within a reasonable time.
Me: Can’t come for wine. With someone at the port of New Orleans. Will call tomorrow around 8am.
There. That looks innocuous enough. And if I don’t call, she’ll know where to tell the cops to start looking. I send it off and turn the ignition key backward. My engine dies immediately, and I’m left with the tick-tick-ticking of my Swatch watch. It’s going about half as fast as my heartbeat.
Felix jumps over onto my lap, puts his front paws on my chest, and starts licking my chin like crazy.
“Oh, God, your breath is horrible, Fee—stop.” I pull him away so I can take the leash I keep in the glove compartment and attach it to his collar. Together, we wait for The Beard to arrive from wherever he was sending his instructions. I pray he’s not going to show up with a gun in his hand and murder in his eyes.
CHAPTER SIX
I wait for ten full minutes before I finally unbuckle my seat belt.
“Are you going to come out here, or what?” I look down at my phone and remember that the call between us was disconnected a long time ago.
Okay, so I’m talking to myself now. Excellent.
I press the “Home” button and my latest call comes up. I hit the green button to dial it again.
“Yes?” says The Beard. I think it’s him, anyway.
“So, what’s next? Am I going to sleep in my car tonight or what?”
“If you want.”
A heavy sigh expels on its own. I’m so tired of the cloak-and-dagger game. I mean, really. Can’t we act like normal people now?
“Actually, what I want is to go home and sleep in my bed, but apparently your little drug deal or whatever that was at Frankie’s went bust, and I got thrown in the middle of it, so now I’m stuck at the smelly port in a dingy warehouse, and my dog has to go to the bathroom.”
He doesn’t answer. I look down at my phone and see that the call has been disconnected again.
“Dammit!” Looking out the windshield tells me nothing. The room is lit up, but it’s mostly empty, save for a scarred wood table with chairs around it, a punching bag in the corner that’s hanging from an overhead beam, some weight-lifting equipment, a row of lockers, and a set of metal stairs. There’s room for maybe six cars inside here, but mine’s the only one around. Does this guy live here? It might explain the beard, but not much else.
As I’m contemplating my options, the big door behind me begins to open again. I put my hand on the ignition, ready to fire my Sonic up and get the hell out of here if necessary.
The big black pickup that I had a ride in earlier pulls into the space next to me. I can’t see the driver because of the tinted windows.
Now I’m completely confused. The Beard said he could see me from the window, and I assumed he meant from the warehouse. Was he outside the whole time? And why would he wait out there and not be in here? And why is he in here now? And what’s he been doing this whole time, just sitting in his car? Maybe he’s afraid of me. Maybe that’s why it took him so long to decide to come in. Maybe he thinks I’m the bad guy.
The rumbling engine cuts off and the door cracks open. It bounces a few times and then swings out wide. My brain cannot compute what I see getting out.
First of all, there’s no beard. And he’s missing about four inches of height. And half a foot of shoulder span. This is definitely not my rescuer.
The guy leans down and looks in my passenger window. “Hello, there,” he says before flashing a grin at me. Perfect teeth. Of course. Why do guys like him have to have perfect teeth anyway? Shouldn’t they have some kryptonite, like coffee stains or twisted incisors?
Okay, so if this guy is going to murder me, I’m not sure how I’m going to handle it. I always pictured killers as big, hairy, gross people. Kind of like The Beard. But this guy? No way. He could be a runway model. If he tries to kill me, I’ll be bitter. To have been so wrong all my life will make me mad. Guys this good looking should not be criminals. It’ll throw off the balance of the universe or something.
“Hi,” I say, not sure what the rules are when it comes to greeting strange men in warehouses after running from gunshots at a biker bar.
“You going to come up?” he asks, gesturing toward the stairs.
I lo
ok where he’s pointing and frown. Do I want to come up into their lair and offer myself up for killing? No, I think not.
“No, that’s all right. I think I’ll just stay right here.”
He shrugs, pulling a bag of what looks like groceries out of the car after him. “Suit yourself.”
I watch as he takes long strides across the space to the stairs and mounts the steps three at a time. His cargo shorts show off his muscled calves and rear end, giving me a hint of what the rest of him might look like under his T-shirt. He must be the one using the weight-lifting equipment.
Felix whines at me again.
“Fine. I’ll let you out.” If he poops, I have Baggies. Surely there’s a dumpster around here somewhere. I open my door halfway and lower Felix to the ground, hoping he’ll be content with just investigating the space.
I’m not paying attention to him and only realize he’s given me the slip when I tug on the leash and it easily flies up and lands in my lap.
“What the . . .? Felix!” I’m whisper-yelling. “Get back here, you little punk!” I see a tiny shadow flitting across the floor near the punching bag.
“Felix!” I pause, waiting for the sound of tiny footsteps rushing to my side. “Felix!” All I hear is a Chihuahua investigating a new place. He’s gone adventure doggy on me at the worst possible time. My little guy can be very inquisitive and busy when he puts his cashew-sized brain to it.
Dammit. Now I have to get out of the car. If they have radiator fluid lying around in puddles, Felix will think it’s Gatorade and lick up every last drop. My sister calls him a mini-Hoover. He won’t stand a chance.
It’s way cooler out here in the warehouse than it is in my stuffy car. I use the few moments I have in the semi-fresh air to pull my shirt off my chest and shake it around a little. The smell that hits me in the face is not pleasant. Great.
“Felix, come on, stop futzing around.”