Hostage

  “Who gives a shit, Kevin? That Chinaman is gonna shit his pants when he sees this. I won’t even have to take it out, goddamnit. Thirty seconds, we’ll be down the road. He’ll have to wipe himself before he calls the cops.”

  Kevin squirmed with a case of the chicken-shits, his nerves making his eyes dance around like beans in hot grease.

  “Dennis, please. What are we going to get here, a couple of hundred bucks? Jesus, let’s go to the movie.”

  Dennis told himself that he might have driven away if Kevin wasn’t such a whiner, but, no, Kevin had to put on the goddamned pussy face, putting Dennis on the spot.

  Mars was watching. Dennis felt himself flush, and wondered if Mars was judging him. Mars was a boulder of a guy; dense and quiet, watchful with the patience of a rock. Dennis had noticed that about Mars on the job site; Mars considered people. He would watch a conversation, say, like when two of the Mexicans hammered a third to throw in with them on buying some tamales. Mars would watch, not really part of it but above it, as if he could see all the way back to when they were born, see them wetting the bed when they were five or jerking off when they thought they were alone. Then he would make a vacant smile like he knew everything they might do now or in the future, even about the goddamned tamales. It was creepy, sometimes, that expression on his face, but Mars thought that Dennis had good ideas and usually went along. First time they met, four days ago, Dennis felt that his destiny was finally at hand. Here was Mars, charged with some dangerous electrical potential that crackled under his skin, and he did whatever Dennis told him.

  “Mars, we’re gonna do this. We’re robbing this fuckin’ store.”

  Mars climbed out of the truck, so cool that even heat like this couldn’t melt him.

  “Let’s do it.”

  Kevin didn’t move. The two kids pedaled away.

  “No one’s here, Kevin! All you have to do is stand by the door and watch. This fat fuck will cough right up with the cash. They’re insured, so they just hand over the cash. They get fired if they don’t.”

  Dennis grabbed his brother’s T-shirt. The Lemonheads, for chrissake. His fucking brother was a lemonhead. Mars was already halfway to the door.

  “Get out of the truck, you turd. You’re making us look bad.”

  Kevin wilted and slid out like a fuckin’ baby.

  JUNIOR KIM, JR.

  KIM’S MINIMART

  Junior Kim, Jr., knew a cheese dip when he saw one.

  Junior, a second-generation Korean-American, had put in sixteen years behind a minimart counter in the Newton area of Los Angeles. Down in Shootin’ Newton (as the LAPD called it), Junior had been beaten, mugged, stabbed, shot at, clubbed, and robbed forty-three times. Enough was enough. After sixteen years of that, Junior, his wife, their six children, and all four grandparents had bailed on the multicultural melting pot of greater LA, and moved north to the far less dangerous demographic of bedroom suburbia.

  Junior was not naïve. A minimart, by its nature, draws cheese dips like bad meat draws flies. Even here in Bristo Camino, you had your shoplifters (mostly teenagers, but often men in business suits), your paperhangers (mostly women), your hookers passing counterfeit currency (driven up from LA by their pimps), and your drunks (mostly belligerent white men sprouting gin blossoms). Lightweight stuff compared to LA, but Junior believed in being prepared. After sixteen years of hard-won inner-city lessons, Junior kept “a little something” under the counter for anyone who got out of hand.

  When three cheese dips walked in that Friday afternoon, Junior leaned forward so that his chest touched the counter and his hands were hidden.

  “May I help you?”

  A skinny kid in a Lemonheads T-shirt stayed by the door. An older kid in a faded black wife-beater and a large man with a shaved head walked toward him, the older kid raising his shirt to show the ugly black grip of a pistol. “Two packs of Marlboros for my friend here and all the cash you got in that box, you gook motherfucker.”

  Junior Kim could read a cheese dip a mile away.

  His face impassive, Junior fished under the counter for his 10mm Smith & Wesson. He found it just as the cheese dip launched himself over the counter. Junior lurched to his feet, bringing up the Smith as the black-shirted dip crashed into him. Junior hadn’t expected this asshole to jump over the counter, and hadn’t been able to thumb off the safety.

  The larger man shouted, “He’s got a gun!”

  Everything happened so quickly that Junior wasn’t sure whose hands were where. The black shirt forgot about his own gun and tried to twist away Junior’s. The big guy reached across the counter, also grabbing for the gun. Junior was more scared now than any of the other times he had pulled his weapon. If he couldn’t release the safety before this kid pulled his own gun, or wrestled away Junior’s, Junior knew that he would be fucked. Junior Kim was in a fight for his life.

  Then the safety slipped free, and Junior Kim, Jr., knew that he had won.

  He said, “I gotcha, you dips.”

  The Smith went off, a heavy 10mm explosion that made the cheese dip’s eyes bulge with a terrible surprise. Junior smiled, victorious.

  “Fuck you.”

  Then Junior felt the most incredible pain in his chest. It filled him as if he were having a heart attack. He stumbled back into the Slurpee machine as the blood spilled out of his chest and spread across his shirt. Then he slid to the floor.

  The last thing Junior heard was the cheese dip by the door, shouting, “Dennis! Hurry up! Somebody’s outside!”

  MARGARET HAMMOND,

  WITNESS

  Outside at the second pump island, Margaret Hammond heard a car backfire as she climbed from her Lexus.

  Margaret, who lived across the street in a tile-roofed home that looked exactly like a hundred others in her development, saw three young white males run out of the minimart and get into a red Nissan pickup truck, which lurched away with the jumpy acceleration that tells you the clutch is shot. It headed west toward the freeway.

  Margaret locked the pump nozzle to fill her tank, then went into the minimart to buy a Nestlé’s Crunch chocolate bar, which she intended to eat before she got home.

  Less than ten seconds later, by her own estimation, Margaret Hammond ran back into the parking lot. The red Nissan had disappeared. Margaret used her cell phone to call 911, who patched her through to the Bristo Camino Police Department.

  DENNIS

  Their voices overlapped, Kevin grabbing Dennis’s arm, making the truck swerve. Dennis punched him away.

  “You killed that guy! You shot him!”

  “I don’t know if he’s dead or what!”

  “There was fucking blood everywhere! It’s all over you!”

  “Stop it, Kevin! He had a fuckin’ gun! I didn’t know he would have a gun! It just went off!”

  Kevin pounded the dash, bouncing between Dennis and Mars like he was going to erupt through the roof.

  “We’re fucked, Dennis, fucked! What if he’s dead?!”

  “SHUT UP!”

  Dennis licked his lips, tasting copper and salt. He glanced in the rearview. His face was splattered with red dew. Dennis lost it then, certifiably freaked out because he’d eaten human blood. He swiped at his face, wiping the blood on his jeans.

  Mars touched him.

  “Dude. Take it easy.”

  “We’ve gotta get away!”

  “We’re getting away. No one saw us. No one caught us. We’re fine.”

  Mars sat quietly in the shotgun seat. Kevin and Dennis were wild, but Mars was as calm as if he had just awakened from a trance. He was holding the Chinaman’s gun.

  “Fuck! Throw it out, dude! We might get stopped.”

  Mars pushed the gun into his waistband, then left his hand there, holding it the way some men hold their crotch.

  “We might need it.”

  Dennis upshifted hard, ignoring the clash of gears as he threw the Nissan toward the freeway two miles ahead. At least four people had seen th
e truck. Even these dumb Bristo cops would be able to put two and two together if they had witnesses who could tie them to the truck.

  “Listen, we gotta think. We gotta figure out what to do.”

  Kevin’s eyes were like dinner plates.

  “Jesus, Dennis, we gotta turn ourselves in.”

  Dennis felt so much pressure in his head that he thought his eyes were swelling.

  “No one’s turning themselves in! We can get outta this! We just gotta figure out what to do!”

  Mars touched him again.

  “Listen.”

  Mars was smiling at nothing. Not even looking at them.

  “We’re just three guys in a red truck. There’s a million red trucks.”

  Dennis desperately wanted to believe that.

  “You think?”

  “They’ve got to find witnesses. If they find those two kids or the woman, then those people have to describe us. Maybe they can, but maybe they can’t. When the cops get all that sorted out, then they have to start looking for three white guys in a red truck. You know how many red trucks there are?”

  “A million.”

  “That’s right. And how long does all that take? The rest of the day? Tomorrow? We can be across the border in four hours. Let’s go down to Mexico.”

  The vacant smile was absolutely sure of itself. Mars was so calm that Dennis found himself convinced; it was as if Mars had run this path before and knew the turns.

  “That’s a fucking plan, Mars. That’s a plan! We can kick back for a few days, then come back when everything blows over. It always blows over.”

  “That’s right.”

  Dennis pushed harder on the accelerator, felt the transmission lag, and then a loud BANG came from under the truck. The transmission let go. Six hundred dollars. Cash. What did he expect?

  “MotherFUCKing piece of SHIT!”

  The truck lost power, bucking as Dennis guided it off the road. Even before it lurched to a stop, Dennis shoved open the door, desperate to run. Kevin caught his arm, holding him back.

  “There’s nothing we can do, Dennis. We’re only making it worse.”

  “Shut up!”

  Dennis shook off his brother’s hand and slid out of the truck. He searched up and down the road, half expecting to see a highway patrol car, but the cars were few and far between and those were mostly soccer moms. Flanders Road from here to the freeway cut through an area of affluent housing developments. Some of the communities were gated, but most weren’t, though most were hidden from the road by hedges that masked heavy stone walls. Dennis looked at the hedges, and the walls that they hid. He wondered if escape lay beyond them.

  It was like Mars read his mind.

  “Let’s steal a car.”

  Dennis looked at the wall again. On the other side of it would be a housing development filled with cars. They could crash into a house, tie up the soccer mom to buy some time, and drive.

  Dennis didn’t think about it any more than that.

  “Let’s go.”

  “Dennis, please.”

  Dennis pulled his brother out of the truck.

  They crashed into the hedges and went up the wall.

  OFFICER MIKE WELCH,

  BRISTO CAMINO POLICE

  Officer Mike Welch, thirty-two years old, married, one child, was rolling code seven to the Krispy Kreme donut shop on the west side of Bristo Camino when he got the call.

  “Unit four, base.”

  “Four.”

  “Armed robbery, Kim’s Minimart on Flanders Road, shots fired.”

  Welch thought that was absurd.

  “Say again, shots fired. Are you kidding me?”

  “Three white males, approximately twenty years, jeans and T-shirts, driving a red Nissan pickup last seen west on Flanders Road. Get over there and see about Junior.”

  Mike Welch was rolling westbound on Flanders Road. Junior’s service station was straight ahead, less than two miles. Welch went code three, hitting the lights and siren. He had never before in his three years as a police officer rolled code three other than when he pulled over a speeder.

  “I’m on Flanders now. Is Junior shot?”

  “That’s affirm. Ambulance is inbound.”

  Welch floored it. He was so intent on beating the paramedics to Kim’s that he was past the red truck parked on the opposite side of the road before he realized that it matched the description of the getaway vehicle.

  Welch shut his siren and pulled off onto the shoulder. He twisted around to stare back up the street. He couldn’t see anyone in or around the truck, but there it was, a red Nissan pickup. Welch waited for a gap in traffic, then swung around and drove back, pulling off behind the Nissan. He keyed his shoulder mike.

  “Base, four. I’m a mile and a half east of Kim’s on Flanders. Got a red Nissan pickup, license Three-Kilo-Lima-Mike-Four-Two-Nine. It appears abandoned. Can you send someone else to Kim’s?”

  “Ah, we can.”

  “I’m gonna check it out.”

  “Three-Kilo-Lima-Mike-Four-Two-Nine. Rog.”

  Welch climbed out of his car and rested his right hand on the butt of his Browning Hi-Power. He didn’t draw his weapon, but he wanted to be ready. He walked up along the passenger side of the truck, glanced underneath, then walked around the front. The engine was still ticking, and the hood was warm. Mike Welch thought, sonofabitch, this was it, this was the getaway vehicle.

  “Base, four. Area’s clear. Vehicle is abandoned.”

  “Rog.”

  Welch continued around to the driver’s-side door and looked inside. He couldn’t be sure that this was the getaway vehicle, but his heart was hammering with excitement. Mike Welch had come to the Bristo police department after seven years as a roofing contractor. He had thought that police work would be more than writing traffic tickets and breaking up domestic disturbances, but it hadn’t worked out that way; now, for the first time in his career, he might come face-to-face with an actual felon. He looked either way up and down the road, wondering why they had abandoned the truck and where they had gone. He suddenly felt frightened. Welch stared at the hedges. He squatted again, trying to see under the low branches, but saw nothing except a wall. Welch drew his gun, then approached the hedges, looking more closely. Several branches were broken. He glanced back at the truck, thinking it through, imagining three suspects pushing through the hedges. Three kids on the run, shitting their pants, going over the wall. On the other side of the wall was a development of expensive homes called York Estates. Welch knew from his patrol route that there were only two streets out unless they went over the wall again. They would be hiding in someone’s garage or running like hell out the back side of the development, trying to get away.

  Welch listened to the Nissan’s ticking engine, and decided that he was no more than a few minutes behind them. His heart rate increased. He made his decision. Welch burned rubber as he swung out onto the road, intent on cutting them off before they escaped the development, intent on making the arrest.

  DENNIS

  Dennis dropped from the wall into a different world, hidden behind lush ferns and plants with leathery green leaves and orange trees. His impulse was to keep running, haul ass across the yard, jump the next wall, and keep going, but the siren was right on top of them. And then the siren stopped.

  Kevin said, “Dennis, please, the police are gonna see the truck. They’re gonna know who we are.”

  “Shut up, Kevin. I know. Lemme think!”

  They were in a dense garden surrounding a tennis court at the rear of a palatial home. A swimming pool was directly in front of them with the main house beyond the pool, a big-ass two-story house with lots of windows and doors, and one of the doors was open. Just like that. Open. If people were home, there would be a car. A Sony boom box beside the pool was playing music. There wouldn’t be music if no one was home.

  Dennis glanced at Mars, and, without even looking back at him, almost as if he had read Dennis’s mind again, Mars n
odded.

  JENNIFER SMITH

  Sixty feet away through the open door, Jennifer Smith was thoroughly pissed off about the state of her life. Her father was behind closed doors at the front of the house, working. He was an accountant, and often worked at home. Her mother was in Florida visiting their Aunt Kate. With her mom in Florida and her dad working, Jen was forced 24/7 to ride herd on her ten-year-old brother, Thomas. If her friends wanted to go to the Multiplex, Thomas had to go. If she lied about going to Palmdale so she could sneak down to LA, Thomas would tell. Jennifer Smith was sixteen years old. Having a turd like Thomas grafted to her butt 24/7 was wrecking her summer.

  Jen had been laying out by the pool, but she had come in to make tuna fish sandwiches. She would have let the turd starve, but she didn’t mind making lunch for her father.

  “Thomas?”

  He hated it if you called him Tommy. He didn’t even like Tom. It had to be Thomas.

  “Thomas, go tell Daddy that lunch is ready.”

  “Eat me.”

  Thomas was playing Nintendo in the family room.

  “Go tell Daddy.”

  “Just yell. He’ll hear you.”

  “Go get him or I’ll spit in your food.”

  “Spit twice. It turns me on.”

  “You are so gross.”

  Thomas paused the Nintendo game and looked around at her. “I’ll get him if you ask Elyse and Tris to come lay out.”

  Elyse and Tris were her two best friends. They had stopped coming over because Thomas totally creeped them out. He would wait in the house until everyone was lying by the pool, then he would appear and offer to rub oil on them. Even though everyone said ooo, yuck, go away, he would sit there and stare at their bodies.

  “They won’t lay out with you here. They know you watch.”

  “They like it.”

  “You are so gross.”

  When the three young men stepped inside, Jen’s first thought was that they were gardeners, but all the gardeners she knew were short, dark men from Central America. Her second thought was that maybe they were older kids from school, but that didn’t feel right either.