Die, lover, die

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.