Runaway: Part One

There's nothing special about me, I'm just an ordinary guy. I'm just an
everyday Joe, another dumb schlock walking the streets.

The world would disagree with you I'd think.

The world would be wrong.

Why don't you tell me about yourself anyway?

Alright, well, my name is Jake Simpson, I'm 26 years old and I'm a
current resident of Atlanta, well, the suburbs at least. I'm not much to
look at, about five foot six, short brown hair, brown eyes. My job never
required me to wear a suit so you'd probably see me wearing khakis and a
dress shirt on most days, jeans on casual Friday.

Are you married?

Yeah, I'm married, for the time being at least, to a beautiful lady
named Marie. We met in college, both of us were studying art at the
University of Georgia and we hit it off almost immediately. We dated off
and on most of the time we were there.

I'll tell you, those were good times, she was gorgeous, the parties
were great and we just had a lot of fun. I wish I could get that back.

Anyway, we both graduated and we decided to get married right after
that. The wedding was beautiful, everyone was telling me how great of a
bride I had and everything. But then after the honeymoon the old maxim of
not knowing someone until you marry them came true.

How so?

Listen, I love her, don't get me wrong, but things changed a lot right
off the bat. I had always remembered her as a wild child who I could have
fun around and laugh with. But that screeched to a halt within a week and
she was wanting to only go to dates at fancy restaurants and drink nice
wine. She knew I was never in to that stuff, but she never bothered to
tell me.

But I guess what really got to me was the kids thing. I wanted kids
bad, I still do! But she waited until two weeks after the honeymoon to
tell me that she was infertile and would have to undergo some kind of
serious and painful surgery to fix it and that she wasn't going to do it.
That just broke my heart.

You didn't talk about kids before the honeymoon?

That's the thing, we talked about it all the time, well, I did anyway.
When we started getting serious, I'd bring the issue up, talk for about
fifteen minutes on the whens and whys I wanted them and she'd just sit
there and smile. When I was finished she'd tell me how sweet I was and
changed the subject. I should have known something was up right then.

I want to know more about you.

Like what?

Your job? Maybe?

I am, or at least, was a graphic designer for a local design firm. We
did mostly contract work. A small business would want an five-star
brochure for their clients to read , but wouldn't have the people in-house
to make it so they'd hire us. The service didn't come cheap but it was
easier than hiring a full-time graphic designer and probably a lot better
quality

The end result is that I did a lot of work for a lot of different
companies who don't even know my name. Doesn't matter though, the pay's
good, the work's fairly easy and you don't get burdened down with
overtime.

Plus, it meant that Marie and I had enough money so that she would only
have to work part time. Even that wasn't really necessary but I guess
without kids to take care of she didn't want to stay around the house all
day. Besides, she got a job as a graphics consultant and between the two
of us we could afford a lot of the finer things in life without busting
our humps.

Sounds like a good life?

It was. I'm not saying it was a bad life. But I guess I kind of got
worn down by it. I mean, in college I was an artist. I used to make
sculptures out steel and glass. I loved working with my hands and showing
off what I made. I used to have them all over the house until Marie told
me to put them away because they were ugly and that I wasn't that artist
anymore. She told me I'd have to accept that.

In a way, she was right though. I was doing the 9-5 grind and I wasn't
complaining. I hadn't made a sculpture in three years and I can't say that
I had any plans to either. I guess just because you graduate with honors
from a recognized art school doesn't mean you're an artist for life. I
should probably just be happy I found a way to integrate my love for art
with my work and leave it at that.

So when did you start thinking about going on your little adventure?

I didn't. When I woke up the morning I left, to me it was just another
Tuesday morning, no different from the one before it, or before that one
and so on. It was just another day.

So what happened then?

I woke up, I ate my breakfast, I brushed my teeth, I read my paper, I
went to work and I even left work thinking everything was ok. I got in my
car, made my way through downtown traffic and started heading up 85 to go
home.

But somewhere along the way, somewhere in that thick traffic I began
thinking about what I had waiting for me when I got home. A cold wife who,
while I loved dearly, hurt me to be with. A home without art or fun, a
life without expression and all so that I could get up and go to the same
damn job that while I guess I shouldn't complain about it, I felt like it
was grinding me away.

I just got more and more mad about the whole ordeal and by the time I
looked up at the road I only had half a mile to my exit and no way to get
over. Ok, that's a lie, I could have gotten over if I had really wanted
to, but when I saw the sign and realized I was in the left hand lane, I
didn't even put on my blinker, I just floored it and started weaving
through traffic like those idiots I usually shoot the bird at.

By the time I looked up again, I was two miles past my exit and I
started to panic. I thought I had lost my damn mind, I was wondering if I
had a death wish or something. I began to think that I should seek therapy
or something like that.

But then I remembered something, when I was in college, I had often
wanted to just roam the nation, see the world so to speak. I mean, if you
don't count vacations, I'd never really left Georgia in my life. I mean,
Florida's nice for a vacation, but let me tell you, the people there are
assholes. No offense if you happen to be from Florida of course.

None taken.

Well, I realized about 20 miles later that I was doing it, I was really
doing it you know? Traffic was so thick still that it had taken me a good
thirty to forty minutes to get that far and there was no way I could
explain that to my wife. So I decided to go for it. It was that simple. I
wasn't going to let life break me any longer.

So then you started planning?

Sort of. I got my head back if that's what you're asking. I knew that I
needed money and that since my checkbook was at home my only means was my
ATM card. But I also knew that my ATM card could be tracked and if my wife
was determined to find me, she could use the trail of purchases to find me
like a homing beacon.

So, I figured while I was close to the city, I'd hit an ATM and take
out what I could. So I found the nearest one and tried to withdraw a
thousand, but of course the ATM would only let me get five hundred. I
guess I wasn't completely clear at the time after all.

Anyway, I figured I had that, the forty dollars I had before I started
the day and my watch, which could be sold if needed. But beyond that I had
no clothes except for the ones on my back and my gym clothes, no food and
about a half a tank of gas.

Sounds pretty rough. Were you scared?

I should have been, but I was exhilarated. For the first time in years
I felt truly free. I didn't know where I was going, what I was doing or
anything, but I loved it and I jumped right back in my car and kept going
up 85.

I had no idea what was going to happen next, but I knew it was going to
be great.

Runaway: Part Two

So you're heading up 85, what happens next?

I just drove really. Not much to say about it. Traffic gradually
thinned out as I got farther away from the city and I gradually began to
move faster and faster. I figure I was on that road for about three hours
or so before I had to stop.

Why did you stop and where?

Well, truth be told, I was out of gas. I had a full tank when I started
the day but the commute to work and evening drive left me with an empty
tank and an empty stomach. So, I pulled in to this greasy spoon restaurant
on the outskirts of Greeneville, South Carolina for a bite to eat.

Greenville?

Yeah, Greenville. You ever been there?

Can't say that I have.

Shame, it's a good city. Pretty big actually. I mean it's not the size
of Atlanta or anything, but it's pretty big. It has a lot of advertising
agencies and so forth. I did some contract work for a couple of them a
year back and actually got a pretty good feel of the city from that.

So what did you do in Greeneville?

Like I said, I stopped at this greasy spoon near the city limits. I'll
tell you, this place was a real shithole. I mean, it was straight out of a
bad movie. The place was wall-to-wall truckers, there wasn't a clean booth
to be found in the joint and it reeked of cigarette smoke and cheap
alcohol.

Personally, I was just hoping to get in and out of this place and get
out as quickly as possible.

Pardon the interruption, but why didn't you just go somewhere else?

I guess I could have gone to a Burger King or McDonald's but, I don't
know. I guess I just felt drawn to this place. Besides, in those fast food
places you get food and you get the hell out. You really don't meet people
and I guess I just wanted some conversation.

Sorry about that, keep going.

It's all right. Anyway, I got in there and sat down at the counter
about two chairs down from this big, huge biker-looking guy. I'll tell
you, he scared me just looking at him. But still, like an idiot maybe, I
sat down next to him and he was talking to the waitress on duty.

When she spotted me, she put the conversation on hold to come over and
get my order. No sooner had I told her what I wanted than she disappeared
in the back. Probably to give my order to the cook.

But the minute that door shut behind her, the guy next to mean leaned
in and said, "You know that girl? She is something isn't she? I'll
tell ya, she's as sweet as the day is long but I'm too old for her. Way
too old. I'm so old I've got one foot in the grave."

I looked over at him, he had a grin from ear to ear and even though his
voice could wake the dead it was kind of soothing in a way, like a gentle
giant or something. I knew right then he was good guy and though he looked
like he'd been in more than a few fights, I just had a feeling he wasn't
going to hurt me.

So I spun around on the chair, chuckling with him and said, "Now
come on, you're not that old. You don't look like you're about to keel
over to me."

He kind of leaned back against the counter, "How old do you think
I am then?"

Right about there I realized I was in over my head, so I started
choking on my words. He really didn't sound like he was being hostile, but
I didn't want to piss him off you know?

"Aw, come on, guess. I won't bite ya. I promise," he said
with a smile.

I looked him up and down really good and said, "Forty, maybe
forty-five."

He slapped his hand down on the counter with a bang and yelled for the
entire restauarant to hear, "Hot damn I fooled another one.
Fifty-seven, would you believe that I am fifty-seven years old and not a
gray hair on my head?"

About this time the waitress came back with my food. "Now you
can't be 57," I said. "You barely look 40."

"I am too 57," he said. "Claire," he said motioning
to the waitress, "tell this guy how old I am."

She spun around from whatever she was doing, "He's 57 sweetie.
I've seen the license. I don't get it either."

I began to eat my food but I didn't get more than two bites in when he
spoke up again, "What's your name man?"

I swallowed hard to avoid choking, "Jake, Jake Simpson,
yours?"

"Well, my name's John but all my friends call me Little John, so
that's what you can call me," he said shaking my hand so hard I
thought he was going to rip my arm off. "So where you from?"

"Atlanta."

I could feel the eyes in the room turning to me as I said it. They
didn't like outsiders, especially those from the city but Little John
spoke up again, "Don't you pay no mind to them, they're just a bunch
of hillbillies and rednecks," he said raising his voice so the room
could hear. In unison, everyone looked back at their plates and resumed
eating.

"So what brings you to our humble town?" he asked.

"Just passin' through," I said trying to eat more quickly.

"Well, where you going to then?"

That's when the reality hit me. I looked up from my food and set my
fork down, "I don't know," I said chuckling, "I really have
no idea where in the hell I'm going."

Little John just kind of gave me a puzzled look and leaned in a little
closer, "You mean to tell me you left Atlanta and you have no idea
where you're going?"

I picked my fork back up, "Yeah, I did. I really did."

"Now listen," he said, " I don't want you to take a
offense to this, but I have to ask you something. What the hell were you
thinking?"

So what did you tell him?

I told him everything. I told him about my wife, about college, about
art about love and even about my sex life. I've never in my life opened up
so much to someone. What's funny is that I didn't even think twice about
what I was saying. I just started talking and I laid it all out there. He
got more confessions out of me in fifteen minutes than I think my wife has
gotten out of me in all our years. I couldn't believe it.

What did he say?

He smiled really big and said, "Son, I think you just became my
new hero." I couldn't believe it. I mean, I had just bared my soul to
another human being and he thought I was some kind of hero? But he kept
going, "You see, I was married for sixteen years. They were three of
the best and thirteen of the worst years of my life. She was an alcoholic
slut who banged half of Greeneville behind my back. But not once did I
have the guts to leave her, not once did I have the guts to do what you
just did. You are my hero man."

He gave me a playful jab on the arm and I quickly finished up my food.
He called for his check and I took a quick tally of my money. I knew with
food, gas and hotels that my cash wasn't going to last long. I figured
maybe 10 days at the most. A bit panicked I called the waitress over and
asked her if there was any way I could work off the bill, that my money
would have to last me a while.

"Don't you mind him Claire," Little John said chiming in,
"Just put his bill on my tab. I'll take care of it for him."

"Thank you so much," I said turning to face him, "But
listen, if it's any trouble, I got it covered."

"Naw, it's alright. Listen, you staying the night in town or do
you need to be getting on?"

I checked my watch, it was almost ten o'clock by this time, "Well,
I hadn't planned on it, but it is getting late isn't it? Know any cheap
hotels?"

"Yeah, how about free?"

"Listen, you've done too much already, I can get a hotel room,
that's not a problem…" I'd have kept going but Little John was
already waving me off.

"It's not a problem," he said, "I got a guy that owes me
a favor. Listen, when you leave the parking lot, make a left, go through
two lights and make another left, not onto the Interestate, but the side
street that's beside it. Go about half a mile that way and you'll see a
hotel called Best Inn. Go there, ask for a guy by the name of Mike and
tell him that Little John sent ya. He'll take care of you."

"Ok, I'll do it," I said jotting the directions down on a
napkin, "But can you tell me why you're being so nice to me?"

He smiled real big and said, "Didn't I tell ya? You're my new
hero."

"I still feel like I owe you something though."

"Listen, if you want to repay me, make your way to the Blue Moon
Bar. It's on the same road as your hotel, just two miles down. I'll be
working there tonight from midnight on. Just show up there, I'll buy you a
drink and make you a deal you can't refuse. I always help my heroes out
and I think I know just what you need."

Did you agree?

Yeah, I agreed. I figured if it was anything too bad, I could get
myself out of Greenville easily. I didn't see there as being much risk.

Well, anyway, he said goodbye to Claire and after finishing my coke I
left too. The only difference is that I had no idea what the hell was
about to happen next.

Runaway: Part Three

So you left the restaurant, what did you do?

Well, I followed the directions on the napkin and sure enough, right
where he said it would be was run-down little shithole of a hotel called
"Best Inn." It was one of those no-tell motels that you probably
read about in the paper. I used to stay in them all the time in college,
only places I could afford, so I guess I wasn't too out of place but I
still didn't like the idea of sleeping there.

To make things worse I really wasn't sure what to do when I got in
there. I'd never done the whole so-and-so sent me routine and actually
gotten anything for it. I thought about just paying for the room myself
since it looked really cheap, of course I also thought about forgetting
the whole hotel thing and just driving on.

So what did you decide on?

I figured that a free room was a free room and the worst things the
Best Inn could do to me is throw me out which leaves me with the options
of getting another hotel room or driving on. So basically I had nothing to
lose.

Anyway, I went in there, rang the bell at the counter and out came this
filthy looking guy who was probably in his forties. He was short,
unshaven, had a huge beer gut and had this hideous Hawaiian shirt on.
"Can I help you?" he asked with a very gruff and even sarcastic
voice.

"Are you… Mike?" I asked him a bit unsure.

"Yeah, what of it."

"Well, Little John sent me here and said that you might be able to
help…" I didn't even get to finish the sentence. That man snapped
to attention, grabbed a key out of the wall chest and laid it on the
counter. I tell you, I've never seen a man move so fast. "Do I need
to sign anything or…"

He interrupted again, "No sir, any friend of Little John is a
friend of mine. You're in room 213, that's out the door, to the left and
up the stairs. Please enjoy your stay." Before I could even thank him
the man ducked back into the office out of sight. I just stood there with
this dumb look on my face trying to figure out what just happened. Never
did though.

How was the room?

It was shit. The air conditioner barely worked, the toilet didn't flush
well and three channels on the TV came in fuzzy. Since I didn't have any
luggage I just kind of plopped down on the bed and watched what I could on
the television to pass the time.

Actually, that's a lie. I did watch television, but I don't remember
any of it, mostly I just lied there and thought about what I was doing.

How so?

At first I thought about just scrapping the whole thing and heading
home. I had to stop myself a couple of times from grabbing the keys and
making the haul back to Atlanta. It was the first time I'd really stopped
to think about how crazy this was and I started getting really scared. I
even cried a little bit over the whole thing. You know, I hadn't cried in
years but it felt good in a strange way.. Kind of like getting back in
touch with your emotions. Even though I was bawling like a baby I felt
free for the first time in years. 

But anyway, every time I thought about quitting I just saw Little John
smiling at me and telling me I was his new hero. There were probably three
times I would have headed back home if it hadn't been for him, but I
didn't want to let him down and I guess I didn't want to let myself down
either. Besides, I figured I was in too deep to turn around now. 

So after I got through all of that, I started thinking about what I'd
do next. I figured I'd go see Little John at the bar. It was the least I
could do after all his help. If things got too hairy there, I'd either
leave to  go home or head the other direction up 85 and go toward
Charlotte. I didn't really have a plan to make that decision if needed, I
kind of figured I'd wing it if it came up.

So what did you do when you finished all of that heavy thinking?

Nothing. I never got to finish it really. I looked up at the clock and
it was 12:30, time to head out. I got in the car, followed Little John's
directions and found the Blue Moon Bar. When I pulled into the parking
lot, I cringed. I mean, the place looked nice enough, big parking lot,
neon sign and even a small porch, but the parking lot was filled with
Harley's and I just knew that the biker crowd was going to kick my ass.

But somehow, someway, I got the courage to go in there and I had to
laugh at myself because no one even noticed me walk in. I mean, for one
the place was mostly empty and second it turned out to be one of those old
country-western dance bars that you see in bad movies. When I walked in,
the jukebox was going real loud and everyone there was either on the floor
or drinking at the bar, either way no once noticed me.

Sorry, I can't see bikers doing line dancing…

Oh, they weren't line dancing. I guess it wasn't even really dancing;
it was more about having fun. They had their wives or their girlfriends or
whatever out there and they were just moving to the music more than
anything. Nothing organized about it.

Sorry to interrupt, just had to ask about that.

It's alright. I understand.

Anyway, I began to walk over to the bar and sure enough there was
Little John behind it polishing some glasses but before I could even get
over there to sit down, he calls out for everyone to hear, "Hey
ya'll, it's Jake."

Immediately two guys got up and began to walk my way. I froze in
mid-step out of fear, but when the first guy reached me and grabbed my
hand in a firm handshake, I relaxed a little, "I gotta tell you boy,
I heard about what you done and holy shit you are like a God to me. Man, I
wish I had what you have. I can't believe it, someone who's actually done
it," he said in a thick southern accent.

I didn't get a chance to respond though, the second guy put his arm
around me and squeezed me a little, "Tell me something, how does
freedom feel? What does it taste like? I have to know. I've been wondering
all my life."

"It's a little nerve-wracking right this second."

He gave me a couple of playful jabs in the gut, "Aw come on, we
can fix that right here, let me buy you a drink," he said as he began
escorting me to the bar.

"Hell no," said one of the patrons at the far end, "I'm
buying him his first drink, you said I could."

"Well, I'm a lying sack of shit, you should know that by
now," the guy around me shot back.

I took up a stool at the bar and before anyone else could speak Little
John shouted out, "Now ain't nobody going to be buying him drinks
until he gets to make his decision," I'll tell you, the crowd fell
dead silent and all eyes turned on me, "Sorry about that, I've been
telling these fellas your story. Guess I got a little carried away. Anyway
though, it looks like you got a choice tonight."

"A choice?"

"Yep. You see, my second hand quit today. Now, I just talked to
the owner and he's willing to pay you fifty dollars plus tips to cover for
tonight. Since you've got such a huge fan club tonight, I'd say that
should total around a hundred dollars and it'll be the easiest hundred
you've ever made since I'll be doing most of the work."

I looked around me. Everyone was still looking at me like dogs watching
the television. I got a sick feeling in my stomach like something bad was
going to happen.

"Or," Little John Spoke up again, "If you don't want the
job, I'll take the hundred since I'll get it anyway and give you a hell of
a deal on this," and let out a loud whistle.

I looked side to side but no one moved. I couldn't figure out what the
Hell was going on. Up and down the line everyone was perfectly still, just
staring at me practically drooling with anticipation.

"Hello," a soft voice said from behind. I tell you, I was so
startled I almost fell off the stool, but slowly I spun around and there
were two girls standing there, "You must be Jake."

Prostitutes?

Yeah. I never thought of them that way but I guess so. But before what
happened could sink in Little John spoke up again, "Now they've
agreed to a special deal for you. For $150 they're yours for the night and
since you've already handed me a hundred, it's only $50 out of your
pocket. It's a helluva deal son. I know I'd take it."

Must have been a tough decision.

Oh it was. I mean I'm not the kind of guy to cheat on his wife. I
actually buy that "till death do us part" crap but these girls
were gorgeous. I mean, one was about five and a half feet tall, had long
brown hair, a delicate face and a very curvaceous build. With her features
she might have been foreign, but I couldn't tell. The other was tall,
thin, with blond hair, blue eyes and that all-American face guys can't
resist. She was the one doing all the talking and she had a charming
southern accent to boot. God that just drives me wild.

So what did you do?

At first I didn't say anything. I just kind of sat there with my mouth
open. But Little John didn't let that go on long, "So what's it going
to be, the money or the girls?"

I swallowed so hard I nearly choked, "Can I think about it for a
few?"

Little John let out a huge laugh, "I wish you could, but if you
don't want them I need to get them over to the club. So you ain't got long
to make up your mind."

That was about when everyone in the bar started leaning in and
whispering to me, "How can you say no to these girls," said one.

"Whatcha got to lose, your wife's already going to kill you. Might
as well have a little fun," said another.

After about four people whispered at me and I guess peer pressure got
the most of me and I stood up and said to them, "Ladies, I'm in room
213. I guess I'll see you there." I tell you, the crowd let out a
huge cheer when they heard me say that, even Little John was applauding.

"Hot damn son you made the right decision. I am so proud of
you," he said applauding like a giant gorilla. "I tell you what,
why don't you just take them with you and we'll settle up in the morning.
Have fun tonight my friend. Have lots of fun."

With that I left the Blue Moon Bar with a woman on each arm and my head
held up high. I wasn't even thinking about what I was doing, just how
popular I'd become.

Of course, foresight at this time might not have been a bad thing…

Runaway: Part Four

So what happened next?

What do you think happened next? I got what I paid for.

Was it worth it?

Was it worth $50? Shit! It was worth twice that much.

No, I mean, how was it? Was it everything you thought it would be?

What do you want details? Listen, I ain't the type to "kiss and tell" but
I'll tell you this, it isn't the fantasy it's cracked up to be, but it sure
it a Hell of a lot of fun and if I was presented with the same offer again,
I'd sure as Hell do it again.

Ok, well, anyway, what happened after you, uh, did your thing?

Well, I actually fell asleep with the two girls. I mean, after we were done
we all just kind of dropped off and were out the second we hit the pillow.
Never thought it would be that tiring.

Anyway, when I woke up, they weren't there and I started to panic. I mean,
I had heard about these types of things where rich travelers spend a night
with prostitutes and wake up with all their money gone. But when I finally
found my wallet in my pants, I saw that all of my money was still there including
the fifty I was supposed to pay them.

I began picking up all of my clothes and checking to make sure everything
was where it should be and sure enough, nothing was missing, even my watch
was on the floor by the nightstand.

But actually, that watch was kind of a realization in itself because I had
no clue what time it was and when I saw it was 12:30 in the afternoon, I
nearly freaked. I mean, we had had the curtains drawn tight and the alarm
clock was useless so the realization there was sunlight out there shocked
the Hell out of me.

Anyway, I didn't get to think about that long because someone started pounding
on the door as loud as they could. It was actually kind of funny though,
I was standing up trying to put my pants on when the banging started and
well, it startled the shit out of me and I ended up busting my ass on that
hard carpet.

Who was it at the door?

I'm getting there. Getting impatient on me? Anyway, I opened the door and
there was Little John staring back at me.

"Hey…" he said but he stopped himself as he got a good luck at me. "Hoooooly
shit man!" I must have looked like Hell because he then started laughing
his ass off in that Jolly Green Giant style he has and said, "It looks like
someone had a real good time!"

I couldn't help but chuckle a little myself before inviting him in. I took
a seat on the edge of the bed and he pulled up one of the chairs. Still not
fully awake I kind of slurred, "What brings you here?"

"Well, I'm here to talk about money," he said.

That woke me up real quick because everything clicked, I mean the meeting
at the restaurant, the bar, the hookers, everything. I'd set myself up for
a good old-fashioned shake-down. But I was too tired to fight him, I just
plopped back on the bed and groaned, "How much do you want? Take it, I don't
care anymore."

He took a long pause and said with a loud booming voice that I'm sure the
people in the next room could hear, "Dumbass, I'm not here to take your money,
I'm hear to help you earn it." I sat up like a shot in disbelief. "You did
pay the girls right?" he asked as an afterthought.

I scratched my head and looked around the room, "No, I uh, fell asleep and
they were gone when I woke up, all my money's still here."

He just looked at me in disbelief. "Well, shit, they must have liked you!
You are the man of the hour, that's all I have to say," he said smiling.
"But listen, just to be safe, why don't you hand me fifty and I'll give it
to them when I see them, alright?"

Did you pay?

Yeah, I did. I actually gave him sixty because all I had on me were twenties
and, well, it was still one hell of a deal. But anyway, he told me he'd buy
lunch and not to worry because I'd be making the money back quickly.

"Listen," he said, "I've been working the phones with my buddies in Charlotte.
One of them's got some work you can do. It's easy work, make deliveries and
crap like that, but I'll warn ya, it ain't exactly legal. You won't be gun
runnin' or anything, but you'll still be breaking the law. But take it from
me, the money's good on the wrong side of the law."

"I guess you would know, you are their pimp right?"

"Sort of, I mean, I ain't their owner or anything but I get paid if that's
what you're asking."

I leaned in a little, "Can I ask you a question?"

"Sure, anything you want."

"How did a guy like you get into this business? I just have to know."

"Well, take a look at me," he said holding his arms out, "What do you think
a guy like me would do for a living?"

I looked him up and down real close, "I'd say a bouncer."

He slammed his hand down on the table, "Hot damn boy, you got a good eye.
You're going places with that intuition." I just kind of stared at him, "For
years I was a bouncer, I bounced at a 'gentleman's club' called 'Wyld Ladyes'.
It was a shithole, but I made a good living."

I didn't realize there were strip clubs in South Carolina.

Neither did I, that's why I said, "There are strip clubs here?"

"Let me tell you something about Greeneville. You're a stone's throw away
from Atlanta, even closer to Charlotte and not that far from Columbia, Charleston
and all of these other business cities. Now, a lot of these businessmen get
a hankering for a little action and don't want to crap in their own backyard,
so they make the drive to Greenville. We got more strip clubs, massage parlors
and escort services than cities twice our size and since no one in their
right mind comes here, there's no risk of being caught."

"I didn't know that," I said stunned.

"Trust me, you're not the first businessman to come to Greeneville for some
tail, but you're probably the first who isn't going home."

"Thanks, I feel special again," I said laughing, "but still, how'd you get
in it all?"

"Well, like I said, I bounced at that club and one day one of the regular
customers got a little too rough with one of the girls and, well, I took
him out back and taught him a lesson. The little shit bitched to the manager
about what I did and I was fired on the spot but the girls, who saw the whole
thing, wanted me to keep protecting them."

"And since some of them were turning tricks on the side," I interrupted,
"they took you own as their pimp."

"Yep, that's about it. But like I said, I don't own them or anything, I just
protect them. They do what they want and they can leave anytime."

"But they don't do they?" I asked.

"Nope, no one's left yet."

"Well, I wouldn't mess with you, that's for sure."

"Aw, you ain't gotta worry about that, I don't beat up my heroes."

Well, at about this point there was a real long pause as I tried to think
of what to say next. This is also when it occurred to me that I needed to
finish getting dressed and getting my stuff together so I could leave.

But just as I was putting on my shoes, Little John spoke up again, "Any thought
on my offer?" he said.

"The one in Charlotte?"

"That's the one."

"Can't you tell me anything else about it?"

"Not really, don't know much. This guy's the silent type you know? But knowing
him, it probably involves either drugs or homemade whiskey. Either way, nothing
too serious."

"How much does it pay?" I asked.

He kind of rolled his head back like he was thinking real hard, "I don't
know. Usually it's a percentage thing, like 10% of the sale, but don't worry,
you'll be making enough. I mean, listen, the worst thing that can happen
is you say yes, go up there, talk with him and decide you don't want it.
You got nothin' to lose? You're already in deep shit as far as I can tell."

Something about that really clicked with me, I just stood up and shook his
hand, "You have a deal then."

He just started smiling real big and said, "Listen, go on up 85 until you
hit Charlotte, there, find a bar called the Red Wolf. I have no idea where
it is so just ask someone. When you get there, ask to speak to Stan, just
tell them I sent you and everything should be A-Ok."

So you decided to be come a runner?

Yep. I just chuckled at him and said, "I can't believe I'm dropping your
name twice."

He got up, slapped me on the back and said, "Well, it's a good name to drop
my boy, it's a damn good name to drop." and before I knew it I was on the
road again, on my way to Charlotte.

Runaway: Part Five

So what happened when you got to Charlotte?

Actually, that's getting a little ahead of the story.

Oh?

I mean, I left Greenville right after lunch and started making the drive
up I-85. Things were going pretty smooth, I mean, traffic was light, the
weather was good and all of that stuff, but it was about halfway through
the trip, almost an hour into it, that I looked into my rear view and saw a
cop riding the back of my bumper.

Now I mean this stuff happens all the time to me, I don't drive like a
nut or anything, but I'm used to having cops follow me around on the
Interstate, so this type of stuff doesn't bother me too much. But for some
reason, when I looked back and saw those blue lights, I realized that I was
only a couple of hours away from becoming a missing person.

I mean, it was bad enough that I had just run away from my wife, but I'd
already been with two prostitutes and I was on my way to being a drug
runner and I guess I just got paranoid as Hell. I just kept waiting for him
to flick on the blue lights, pull me over and take me back to my fucked-up
life back home, or worse, take me to jail where I'd eat dog shit three
meals a day and get raped by my cellmate every night.

And it got really crazy after a while too. I mean, this cop was
following me for at least ten minutes and after a while I just started
really losing it and freaking out bad.

How so?

Well, I got these crazy visions of one of those old-style APBs being put
out on me and cops chasing me everywhere I go, police helicopters circling
me. I was even making plans to ditch the car and hike through the woods for
dozens of miles just to avoid getting caught.

And realize, even though I feel stupid as Hell about it now, right then
it made perfect sense and I started getting very jittery about it. I just
KNEW that cop behind me was radioing headquarters and was going to bust me
any second. My hands started trembling, I couldn't hold the wheel very well
and I was starting to worry I'd begin swerving and get pulled for a DUI, or
driving like an idiot.

So what did you do?

Well, I got lucky on this one, before I started hyperventilating, I came
across one of those highway rest stops and I pulled inside. I probably sat
there for ten minutes in my car just trying to calm myself, forcing myself
to breathe slowly and all of that crap. I'm pretty sure everyone who looked
in my car thought I was having a panic attack or something, which I guess
isn't that far from the truth.

But anyway, when I got myself to where I could breathe like a normal
human being, I decided to get out of the car and get some fresh air. I
walked over to the vending area and got myself a coke at sat down at a park
bench where I could watch the other cars on the interstate go zooming by
me.

I sat there, sipping my coke, just trying to think about what the Hell I
was doing. I mean, two days before all of this, I had never done anything
more illegal than a little weed in college and a few parking tickets. But
in a 24-hour time, I was sleeping with prostitutes and going to run drugs.
It just never dawned on me until right then exactly what the Hell was going
on.

It must have been quite a shock when it all set in.

It was, it was, I'm not going to lie. But the funny thing is that I sat
there and I kept trying to feel bad about what I was doing. I knew what I
was doing was wrong, at least in the eyes of the government, and that I
should probably feel at least some guilt about my behavior. But try as I
might, I couldn't. I just couldn't make myself feel bad or wrong for what
I'd done.

I mean, the way I saw it was that I hadn't hurt anyone, all I had done
was have a good time, I wasn't going to hurt anyone, just make deliveries
and the only person in the world who was going to have any legitimate beef
with what I was doing was my wife and, well, fuck her you know? She wasn't
worth feeling bad over.

So all that was left was fear. I was scared of getting caught, scared of
having my life, as bad as it was, made worse and I was scared of being a
bigger screw up and a bigger failure than I was before. I will say, that I
did get so scared that I seriously considered just going back and trying to
salvage what I could of the life I had. Truth be told, the only thing that
probably stopped me was that I was almost four hours away from home, but
less than one away from Charlotte.

So I kind of decided that I didn't have much choice but to go ahead and
make the trip to Charlotte. Like Little John said, worst thing that could
happen is that I get there, decide I don't want it and leave. If that
happened, it was only five hours back home and, Hell, I guess I didn't
think I could do much more damage by pressing on.

Well, anyway, I got back in the car thinking I had calmed down, I went
to put it in gear and I just locked up again. I wasn't hyperventilating
like before, but I just couldn't make myself drive. I tried, I tried and I
tried, but I couldn't get my hands to listen to my brain, it was like when
you're trying to wake up in the morning and your brain sends the message to
your legs to get out of bed but you still don't move. The best I figured is
that my mind might be calm, but my body wasn't. Didn't matter thought,
either way I wasn't going anywhere and I didn't want to waste any more
time.

So what did you do?

Luckily, it was one of those rest stops where, when you arrive, truckers
go one way and cars go another. So I figured that strangers have been my
best friends through this whole ordeal and walked about forty yards over to
the truck area and caught one of the drivers out walking around his rig,
probably checking the tires or something. Anyway, I explained to him that I
was on my way to Charlotte, that I had a very important meeting and that my
car had broken down leaving me in need of a ride.

Well, he whipped around from what he was doing and shot me a dirty look
that made my blood freeze. He probably thought I was a hippie, a bum or
someone just looking for a free ride. But when he saw my clothes, I guess
he figured I was being straight with him and relaxed a bit and explained
that he wasn't going to Charlotte, just around the city to head up to some
town I've never heard of before. However, he did jump into his cab and get
on his CB to see if there were any other truckers in the area who could
give me a lift and, as luck would have it, someone else right there in the
rest area heard the call and offered to take me.

So, without much in the way of second thought, or a first thought for
that matter, I left my car behind and got in the cab of some guy's truck.
To tell you the truth, it was the first time I had ever been inside a big
rig like that. I had always wondered what one had looked like on the inside
and well, I guess now I wish hadn't found out.

That bad?

Well, the guy was nice enough, I can't remember his name though it'll
probably hit me any second now. He was a quiet guy and didn't talk much,
but he clearly didn't bathe or clean much either. I know it sounds cheesy,
but the place reeked of cigarette smoke and grease. I know it's the
stereotype and all, but he definitely fit the bill and, frankly, it was a
long drive to Charlotte. I mean, I didn't want to offend the guy by rolling
down the window or anything, so I just kind of sat there and tried my best
to hold my breath the entire way there.

Anyway, he took me some kind of distribution center in Charlotte. I'd
never heard of the place but it was one of those office supply companies
that no regular person has heard of, though almost every company in the
known world uses them. But that's beside the point, the manager there was
nice enough to lend me a phone to call a cab, which in turn was able to
take me to the Red Wolf Bar in the middle of downtown Charlotte.

I really didn't know what to do, so I spent a few minutes pacing outside
the bar weighing my options and trying to take in what I was getting ready
to do. But I didn't dawdle long really, maybe a few minutes because I kind
of realized that I didn't have much choice on the matter. I had nowhere
else in the world that I could go to and, besides, I was here already.

Well, I went into the place and it was actually quite nice. It was dead
because they had just opened a few minutes beforehand, but it wasn't
anything like the Blue Moon Bar in Greenville. Outside of being clean and
well-lit, it was big, open and not flooded with thick smoke. It was almost
the kind of place I would have gone to before all of this crap started.

But anyway, I walked up to the bartender on duty, who was polishing
glasses at the time, and said, "My name's Jake, Jake Simpson, I'm here
to see Stan, Little John sent me here."

He looked up at me and after giving me a thorough once-over said,
"Come with me," and led me into the back of the bar.

Runaway: Part Six

So what happened when he took you to the back of the bar?

Well, the bartender didn't say much of anything; he just walked me
through the kitchen area and led me into what was probably a storage room
of some kind. In there, well, it was a scene straight out of one of those
bad gangster movies. There was a card table with a guy sitting behind it
shuffling papers, a bare light bulb hanging from the ceiling and nothing
but bare walls and concrete floor.

Literally, my first thought when I entered the room was "Oh Jesus,
I've walked into a cheap mob flick."

I can see why you'd think that.

It was bad, very bad, and I wasn't making things any better. In high
school I used to watch a lot of Humphrey Bogart films so I just sort of
slipped into character without realizing it. I kind of put my hands in my
pockets, threw on a scowl, walked up to the table and said, "Hello,
I'm Jake." I'm lucky though, I stopped myself from talking with the
accent, that could have been embarrassing.

Anyway, he looked up from what he was doing, "Yes, you must be the
guy Little John sent up here to help us out." I just kind of nodded
politely and let him continue. "I don't know how much, if anything, he
told you about what you'd be doing so I want to let you know now that it's
not legal and there are risks. If you're going to back out, I suggest you
do it now."

I looked around the room for a second, out of the corner of my eye I
still saw the bartender standing in the doorway. "I've got nothing
better to do."

"Very well," he said motioning to the bartender to take a seat
beside him, "I've got a job for you that will take about two weeks of
your time. If you do it though, it'll make you a lot of money and it
shouldn't be that dangerous as long as you don't freak out."

I glanced over at the bartender and back to Stan, "Ok."

"You still on board with us?" Stan asked.

The Bogart in me slipped back out, "I'll have to check my day
planner, but I think I'm free for the next few weeks."

That dumb crack only got a chuckle as he reached under the table and
pulled out a small brown suitcase. Carefully, he punched in the
combination, opened it and spun it around to face me. Inside it was several
bags filled with a white powder. Now. I'd never it before then, save on TV
or the Internet, but I knew right away it was cocaine. There was no
mistaking it.

"What you see in here," Stan started, "Is a little over
eight pounds of cocaine. The street value of this is well over one million
dollars but to you and me, it's worth a three-quarters a million. Your job
is to get this bag and it's contents to Los Angeles in one week. Think you
can handle that?"

That's a lot of cocaine you're talking about.

I know, it looked to me like it almost filled up the suitcase, though
I'm sure they could have put a lot more in if needed. But it still amazes
me that you can fit one million dollars worth of anything into one
suitcase, just shows you how valuable the stuff really is.

But anyway, I reached over into the suitcase and pulled out one of the
bags and held it in my hand feeling how heavy it was and trying to grasp
what I was really holding. That, of course, really pissed off the
bartender, who was apparently playing watchdog, but I didn't care.

In fact, I really didn't give a lot of thought to much of anything, the
whole moment just felt so surreal to me that I just kept doing what I
thought was expected of me. "Sure," I said.

Stan went to speak but the bartender leaned into his ear. I don't know
if he wanted me to hear what he was saying or if he's just a bad whisperer,
but clear as a bell I heard him say, "Can we really trust this guy? We
don't know him after all."

Stan just muttered something back about Little John and the way I was
dressed and the issue seemed to be dropped. Then he turned to me and said,
"Sorry about that, here's the details. At 5:30 PM, one week from
today, an acquaintance of ours will be waiting in the men's bathroom right
inside terminal one at LAX airport. He'll have a bag identical to this one
only that bag will be carrying $750,000 dollars. Now this is important,
before you switch bags, ask him his name, if he answers with anything but
'Cobra', you get out of that airport as fast as you can without drawing
attention and get your butt and that suitcase back to Charlotte. Anything
besides 'Cobra', got that?"

"Cobra," I repeated, "Got it."

"Then," Stan continued, "You bring that 750,000 dollars
back here within one week, one week, and we'll settle up. For your part,
you get ten percent or 75,000 dollars. Not bad for two weeks work? We'll
even give you a few hundred to cover expenses to get you there, but the
trip home comes out of your pocket. If you need to, use the money in the
suitcase but if more than 75 grand is missing when you get back, we're
going to have problems."

"Sounds easy to me."

"It is, but let me warn you real quick, you run off with that
money, you're dead. I've got guys all over this country, you will be found
and you will be killed. The same goes for if you're caught by the police
and rat us out or do anything stupid like try to sell it yourself. You give
it to 'Cobra' at 5:30 a week from today and no one else. Then, you bring
the money here and nowhere else. Do it right, you'll be rewarded, fuck it
up, you die."

Pretty strong threat?

Yeah, it was and I got a lump in my throat just hearing it. I knew he
wasn't screwing around either. He was dead fucking serious. Sorry for the
pun.

So what did you do?

The only thing I could do, I looked at him and said, "You don't
have to worry about that."

"Good," he shot back. He then spun the suitcase around, closed
it back up and slid it across the table, "There you go."

Without even thinking about what I was doing, I snatched the suitcase of
the table and said, "I guess I'll see you in two weeks then."

"One more thing," Stan called out, "I need the license
plate of your car. Just to make sure you're not going to get pulled for
something stupid like a suspended license or too many fucking speeding
tickets.

Then it hit me. Like a 2×4 my stupidity smacked me right in the back of
the head, I had just agreed to run drugs across country and my car was
parked in a rest stop along I-85. I've never wanted to kick myself so hard
in all of my life.

So what did you say?

I stuttered a lot. "I-I-I don't have a car right now. It's kind of,
uh, inaccessible to me right now."

Stan just jumped out of his chair and slammed his palms against the
table, "You what!?"

"I-I don't have a car, I left it at a rest area along I-85. I'm
sorry."

"And just how the fuck were you planning to run anything when you
don't have wheels?"

By this time I was really panicking. He was very pissed and that
bartender looked like he was ready to do some real damage to me "I
didn't think about that, I'm sorry!"

"Give me that suitcase back so I can find someone with brains to do
this?" he shouted.

I started looking around the room frantically trying to find a solution.
I knew I needed the job. It was my only break and without the money I was
either going to have to go back home or just straight to jail. My first
thought was to fly, but that's too much money and security is way too tight
for that. You can't just walk into an airport with a million dollars worth
of cocaine these days you know?

You'd like to think that at least.

Then the big idea hit me, "I'll take the bus," I said.

"The bus?"

"Yeah, the bus. It's perfect. It's something like two and a half
days from Atlanta to LA it shouldn't be much longer from here. That's
plenty of time, it's cheap, there's almost no security and, best of all,
cops don't pull Greyhound busses over. It's the safest way I can go."

If nothing else this got him to calm down and think, he sat back down
and started whispering with the bartender, even though I couldn't hear much
of what they were saying, they seemed to be nodding their approval. Finally
they broke apart and Stan said, "Well, I guess if you ain't got a car
then you aren't going to run off with the money," he said.

I just sort of smiled and said, "You got a point."

"It's cool by us as long as we book the tickets for you." I
just nodded my head. "Then I guess that's that. I'll call a cab and
have him take you to a hotel. If things go well, I won't see you again for
two weeks."

"Do you want me to take this with me?" I asked holding up the
suitcase.

"Take it, I don't want to see it again." I turned around and
started walking toward the door but he called back out to me before I could
leave, "One more thing, guard it with your life… literally."

Runaway: Part Seven

style="font-style: italic;">So what happened after that?

Well, the cab came and took me to the hotel, it was another dump for
the record, the place literally smelled of mildew and cheap cigarettes,
and I sort of crashed there for a while, not exactly sure what I was
expected to do. I mean, for all of the planning that supposedly went
into this, all I knew was that they were going to buy me a bus ticket
to L.A. I had no idea how they were going to get in touch with me, give
me the ticket, or do even get to the station.

So what did you do?

A lot of nothing. I wanted to look at the cocaine again, I mean, I
didn't want to try any or anything like that, just look at it some
more. To me it looked so harmless and so stupid that the idea it was
worth almost a million dollars seemed crazy. However, Stan locked the
case before he handed it to me and I didn't know what the combination
was and I wasn't about to break it open. The last thing I wanted was to
get killed for breaking into a million-dollar suitcase.

However, I did manage to pass sometime watching television and walking
around the hotel. Though the channels sucked and the picture was fuzzy,
it was better than nothing. Actually though, now that I think about it,
I spent most of my time sleeping I believe. Of course, all of this is
just me guessing, the clock in the room was flashing twelve and I
really didn't think to check my watch, it didn't seem important.

But can I assume your respite
ended quickly?

Somewhat. I mean, it took them longer than I had expected for them to
get back in touch with me, but after, I don't know, maybe a day or so
of waiting, the phone rang and Stan pretty much told me that my bus
left in three hours from the Charlotte station and I needed to be on it.

That's not a lot of time.

No, but it was enough.

Enough for what?

Well, you see, I got dressed right away and decided I was going to get
to the station early, you know, better safe than sorry. But when I took
a look at myself in the mirror, I looked like crap. I mean, I'd
showered and everything, but I was wearing the same clothes as the day
I left Atlanta. I hadn't even had the time to rinse them out in the
shower or anything.

I decided that since money was coming my way I could afford to spend a
little. I called for a cab and had him take me to a mall. I picked up a
few pairs of jeans, some t-shirts and one nice outfit, slacks and
button-down shirt, to wear if I needed it. To be honest, I paid way too
much for it, but since I was short on time, I really wasn't in much of
a position to argue and, besides, I was still left with more than
enough cash to cover food and such on the road. I mean, hey, I was a
college student, I know how to eat cheap.

I'll bet you do.

Yeah, I know a thing or two about getting by. But anyway, that's beside
the point, after picking up what I needed clothing-wise, I picked up a
small suitcase to take with me and a few toiletry items, toothbrush,
toothpaste, so on and got a cab to take me to the bus station.

Now, I have to admit, Greyhound is one of my favorite ways to travel. I
mean, with driving you get way too tired, flying is too damn expensive,
you don't get to see the country and these days security is so anal
that I always feel uncomfortable and trains, well, this is America you
know? We might as well not have train service at all it's so bad. So,
even though it's not the quickest way to get from A to B, I've always
loved the bus and I used to take it to all my spring break vacations in
college.

But none of that means I love bus terminals or bus passengers. I
honestly think I wasn't the only drug runner on that bus but I was
certainly the only one dressed respectably. I mean, a lot of these guys
looked like they'd as soon kill you as look at you, you just got this
feeling that life was cheap to them and that, well, they were pissed
off all the time and probably packing some kind of weaponry.

Must have been scary.

Not really, getting on was a challenge and mingling with the passengers
at the station was Hell. Those hard plastic seats, the noise, the
commotion and that odd smell made the terminal unbearable, but once I
got on the bus, I found a row with two empty chairs, threw down my
stuff and started reading the magazines I had bought at the terminal. I
got lost in my own little world and every time I stuck my head up above
the seats, I could see that everyone else was doing the same. I guess
between the Walkman's and the Game Boys, they really didn't care about
me one bit.

Must have been a huge relief
then.

Boring was more like it. The bus was almost empty so no one was sitting
near anyone else and the scenery in that part of the world isn't the
best. Plus, for some reason we were stopping in every little podunk
town that had a "bus stop" sign posted somewhere in it. I swear some of
these places were the towns you read about in southern gothic novels,
small, falling apart, strange names you can't pronounce, that type of
thing.

Seriously though, not more than an hour passed before I found myself
ready to scream with boredom. I'd forgotten that in college I'd always
go in a group and load up my bag with things to do, you know, music
games and such, I'd never been stuck on a bus with nothing to read,
nothing to do and no one to talk to. And you know what? It's fucking
torture.

How'd you survive?

At first it was a lot of finger tapping, gum chewing and munching. I'm
one of those people that like to eat when he's bored and, well, the
food I'd bought to last me on the first leg of the trip disappeared
really quickly. I was left with pretty much just a pack of gum, a few
sodas and a long, long wait ahead of me.

Luckily though, we hit more of those small towns we began to pick
people up. By the time we'd hit either Knoxville or Nashville, the bus
was pretty full and people were sitting close enough to me for me to
talk with them.

Meet anyone interesting?

A few people, it was right about then the billboard salesman got on the
bus. He was on his way to Texas for some kind of convention and had a
fear of flying. He told me all about billboards, how you sell them,
what they cost, how they're painted, all of that stuff. It sounds like
boring stuff, but it's really interesting, I'll never look at a
billboard the same way again, that much is for sure.

But honestly, the thing that saved me was the layover in Memphis. I had
a few hours or so that I was stuck there and jumped on the chance to go
exploring. I knew I needed something to keep me entertained the rest of
the trip if I was going to stay sane and, well, I don't think "Popular
Mechanics" was going to do it. We're talking about a three-day trek
here.

So I got a cab to take me to a used CD store. I bought myself a small
CD player, some batteries, a good pair of headphones and probably way
too many CDs. I was seriously cutting into my food fund by this time.
But this place had a lot of good rock, metal and 80's music and at only
a few bucks a CD, how could I turn it down, really?

Wait a minute, I thought
Tennessee was the home state of country music?

I thought it was too, maybe that's why it was all so damn cheap, but I
wasn't about to question it. I just paid for everything, grabbed my
loot and left, taking the first cab I could find back to the station,
getting there just in time to meet my connecting bus.

Boy am I glad I made that run though, that bus was dead. The billboard
guy was on there, but he sat elsewhere on the bus and there was no one,
I mean no one around. Plus, we were driving through Arkansas for most
of the next leg and it was dead as Hell. No scenery, just more of those
stupid towns taking up more and more of my time. I really wanted to
kick someone for agreeing to pick all of those idiots up.

But at least it filled the bus
up again right?

I didn't get that lucky this time. The bus was just too damn empty from
the start. Someone sat down in the seat in front of me, but that was as
close as I got to human contact, even the seats across the aisle were
empty.

But that really didn't bother me too much though. I had hours of music
to listen too so I just did what everyone else did and I got lost in my
own little world. When I wasn't listening to music, I was nibbling,
sleeping or reading. But, to be honest, I don't remember much of
Oklahoma, Texas or even New Mexico though we spent literally over a day
on those portions. It's all just a blur of rock 'n' roll music, trees
and towns with names I can't pronounce.

How long was it after that that
you got to L.A.?

About a day or so I think, like I said though, it's all a blur to me.
You really lose track of time when you are trapped in a metal tube
driving across country, especially since the windows were tinted and
sunlight didn't make much of a difference.

However, somewhere around Flagstaff, Arizona things started picking up
again. A lot of people from Phoenix and Mexico started getting on the
bus and most of them were going either to L.A., San Diego or Oceanside
but either way they all pretty much were going to the coast.

I struck up conversations with a few of the people heading to L.A., I
got some tips on where you can find good, cheap hotels, I was kind of
tired of staying in dumps you know, and got a few pointers on what I
should see and where I could get a good meal on a budget. They were
actually very welcoming to me and very willing to help, something that
caught me off guard.

Yeah, I hear L.A. residents
have a history of being a bit inhospitable.

Exactly, but I think these guys weren't so much residents as travelers
so they probably didn't care that I was an outsider. Hell, I'd almost
say that they were comforted.

But anyway, it wasn't long before the driver came over the loudspeaker
and said, "We're now pulling into our L.A. terminal, this is the last
stop for this so I hope you have enjoyed your time on Greyhound and
that you have a safe and pleasant trip!" 

Runaway: Part Eight

So
what did you do after you pulled into the station?

Well,
one of the tips I had gotten was for a hotel with a great weekly rate
that was practically within walking distance to the airport. Sure,
they're nightly rate sucked but if you were going to stay longer than
something like four nights, you'd get off cheaper just paying for the
week and checking out early.

Anyway,
sure enough, the tip was dead on. It wasn't a chain hotel or
anything, in fact, best I could tell it was run by an elderly couple
that probably just made it to America, but it was clean, it was in a
decent part of town and it even had a few restaurants around it and
places to shop. It wasn't a Hilton, but it would work you know?

The
only downside to it was that the hotel fee was more than the cash I
had on hand, I guess I'd bought too many Cds in Nashville. I ended up
having to put it on my credit card, which I knew was a huge risk, but
I figured that since I was on the other side of the continent, by the
time I'd been tracked down, I'd be long gone. After all, what was my
wife going to do, drive to California and get me?

So
what did you do in L.A?

Not
a lot really. I think I got there late Sunday and my "appointment"
wasn't until Wednesday. I pretty much just spent my time either
eating, watching TV or sleeping. Well, I also did a fair amount of
planning about how I was going to spend the money, you know, start my
new life.

I'll
tell you, for a while there I had it all mapped out. I was going to
get a new identity, move to LA,, Miami or some other coastal town, buy
a nice house and start up a new life doing whatever I wanted. I mean,
I might take breaks to make runs like the one I was on, but that
would only be once in a while and to pay the bills. I just wanted a
good, easy, happy life away from the people I knew, the work I hated
and the world, I… I guess the world I felt trapped in.

But
anyway, to answer your question, I spent most of my time killing
time.



Well,
that is, save your little run-in.

Yeah,
well.



You
going to tell me about it or do I have to tell it for you?

No,
you'd get it wrong and I want you to hear how it really happened.

Ok.
Go ahead then.



Well,
at about 3 o'clock Friday, afternoon for the record, there was a
knock at my door. Thinking it was housekeeping, I answered it without
even looking through the peephole and found myself toe-to-toe with a
huge guy, something like 6'6 weighting 250 lbs., wearing khaki pants
and a bright red polo shirt. He took a look at this notepad he had in
his hand, one of those little "black books" you know, and asked
me "Are you Jake Simpson?"

Kind
of knocked back, all I said was "Huh?"

"Jake
Simpson, you him?"

At
this point, I knew something was wrong. This guy was giving me chills
he was so cold and he had that kind of energy, you know, like a
killer almost. However, the best I could do was continue to act
surprised, "Who the Hell are you talking about?"

"Jake
Simpson. You don't know anything about him?"

"No,
I don't know any Jakes, much less a Simpson," I said trying to keep
calm.

"You
sure look a lot like this picture I got of him," he said holding up
a copy of my wedding picture.

When
I saw the picture, I panicked because that was when it all added up.
My wife had tracked me here and had probably sent the police after
me. I had a million dollars worth of cocaine and my wife was going to
get me arrested for something stupid like abandonment. "I look like
every white-collar American on the planet, listen, I'm here on
vacation…"

He
interrupted me, "But his credit card was used to reserve…"

"I
don't know anything about a credit card, I paid with cash," I
shouted back.

"But
the hotel manager said…"

"Then
he got it wrong alright? Now get out of here before I call the
police!"

That
was my great desperate bluff. You see, I still thought he was the
police and I was honestly expecting him to just reach back, flash his
badge and take me away. Still though, it was the only thing I could
say to get him to back off and I was very surprised when it actually
worked. He heard the word "police" and just shut up.

Then
he made me real nervous. You see, he didn't say anything for a long,
long while. If he had just said something, anything, it would have
been better than staring up at his flaring nostrils for about five
minutes. Instead though, he just reached into his shirt pocket,
pulled out a card and handed it to me. I took a look at it and though
I can't remember the name or anything like that, I'll never forget
seeing the words "Private Investigator" written across the top of
it in big, bold letters.

"If
you see anyone named Mr. Simpson," he said, "Have him give me a
call, his wife wants to speak to him about some urgent matters."

I
just took the card and nodded. He slowly turned around and walked
away. Heading straight out into the parking lot. Me, I just shut the
door behind him and watched him from the window. He walked out to the
far side of the lot, got into his car, a blue sedan of some kind, and
moved it to a space directly across from my room where he parked and
waited. It was so flagrant! He wasn't even trying to hide what he was
doing. He just sat there in plain view, in broad daylight, letting me
know he was there.

Must
have been scary.

It
was. I knew I was in trouble right then. My first thought was to
ditch the suitcase somewhere. However, if I did that then Stan would
have me killed. Then I thought about running to the police but life
in prison didn't sound too appealing either. I felt trapped. I was
literally on the verge of just breaking down and crying. I mean, how
helpless can you feel?

What
did you do?

The
only thing I could do. I got on the phone and I got the number for
the Red Wolf Bar in Charlotte from information. There, I got the bartender and I asked
to speak to Stan. Let me tell you though, Stan wasn't too happy to
hear from me. I started out telling him that I made it to Los Angeles
ok and that everything was fine, but he kept insisting "What's
wrong? Why are you calling me?"

Eventually
I broke down and said, "Listen, I'm being watched."

"Who?
The police?" he barked back.

"No,
no cops." I said. I could hear him breathe a sigh of a relief. When
he calmed down enough I continued, "I think my wife has sent a
private eye to bring me back to Atlanta."

"Your
wife?" he asked.

"Yeah,
I kind of, you know, left my wife."

"So
did I, but she didn't sick no private dick on me."

"Yeah,
but, you see, I didn't tell her," I said as calmly as I could.

I
heard him turn his head away from the receiver on the phone and
scream "Fuck!" as loud as he could. Then he put it back up to his
ear and said, "You should have told me about this shit!"

"I
didn't think it would be a problem…"

"You
don't think!" he shouted back at me, "You just do. I do all of
the thinking for you. You got that?"

I've
never felt so small in my life, "Yes sir," I said in a pathetic,
weak voice.

"Good!
Now do you know who this guy is?"

"Yeah,
he gave me his card."

"Perfect,
give me all of the information on it. Everything, even the fax number,
and I'll handle it."

And
you did it I assume?

Yeah,
I did. I gave him every single line, even the fax number like he
asked. I didn't know what he was going to do with it; I honestly
figured he'd just pay him off or something. You know, private eyes
are for hire anyway, they work for the highest bidder, you give them
a little more cash, and they go away. Made sense to me you know?

But
that's not what happened is it?

No,
it's not. I finally got the courage three hours later to peek through
the curtain and, when I did, I saw that the car was gone. It was a
huge relief. Just envisioned that private investigator getting a call
on his cell phone offering him twice the money if he dropped the case
and him speeding off into the night. Seemed logical enough to me you
know?

I
never even considered that, well, this would happen.

And
what exactly is "this"?

The
next morning, I was woken up early by blue lights outside my window
in the parking lot. I looked out the window and saw a whole bunch of
cops around the hotel dumpster, they were pulling out a body and,
from where I was, I couldn't see the face or anything, there wasn't
much mistaking that bright red polo shirt.

So
it was him?

Yeah,
it was him. I heard about it on the morning news a few hours later
and I was just waiting, just waiting for the cops to come knocking on
my door. I mean, how suspicious can you get? Finding the body of a
private eye in the dumpster of the hotel of the guy he was tracking.
That's beyond suspicious.

The
worst part was that I couldn't leave, I had nowhere to go and all I
could do was sit there and bite my nails, waiting for the knock that
I knew would come. Again, I was trapped.

Why
didn't you just go to the police and turn yourself in?

At
that point, I felt like I'd killed him, like it was my fault you
know? Sure, I didn't know what Stan was going to do, but any idiot
could have figured it out. I mean how stupid am I really? If that
wasn't as plain as fucking day, I don't know what is.

Anyway,
I wasn't about to turn myself in but I wasn't about to run. I figured
that if the police wanted me for questioning, it'd be best to let
them come to me. After all, I didn't see anything, I didn't hear
anything, and maybe I could just go about my business and play
oblivious just a little longer.

Still
though, must have been tense.

That's
just it. Even though it was tense as Hell, this time I was too angry.
I honestly wanted to strangle Stan. I'd called him for help and what
did his guys do but make things worse. I mean, they dumped the God
dammed body in the hotel dumpster, not that I wanted him dead in the
first place. For a few thousand dollars, this guy probably could have
been on his merry fucking way and they instead decide to kill him and
leave his corpse maybe fifty yards from where I was standing. It was
like they were trying to get me arrested.

God
I could have killed him right then, I really could have?

But
what happened?

The
knock never came. I just sat there and watched the news unfold. By
something like eleven o'clock they were calling it a "drug-related
killing", whatever that means, and said they had pictures of
suspects, two black guys that looked nothing like me.

You
were off the hook.

Yeah,
as off the hook as a guy carrying a million dollars worth of cocaine
can be.

Runaway: Part Nine

So, after the heat blew over about the private eye, what did you do?

Nothing. I mean I was still scared to death. I just wanted out of California and fast. My gut was screaming at me to runaway and runaway fast. I just knew that any second the police would figure out why the private eye was really killed and come knocking on my door.

So why didn't you run?

Like I said, I was holding a million dollars worth of cocaine. I stay there I might go to prison. I leave, I' be killed for certain. Better to be judged by 12 than carried by 6, that's what my dad told me.

So, eventually Wednesday came around and then…

I made my way to the airport. Well, first I had to fight the urge to get there early, really early, and sit around in the terminal with the suitcase from Hell dangling in my fingers. Not smart. So I used what willpower I had left and I called a cab at about 4:50 pm and he dropped me off sometime around 5:10 pm in front of the terminal.

At first I was nervous that the bathroom might be past security and with all of this post Sept. 11th stuff going on, I knew I'd never make it past the screeners, much less with the guys carrying the M-16s. I mean, there was enough shit there to make a pro nervous, me, I was practically shaking.

So how did you get in?

I played it Bogart again. I got out of the cab, paid my fare and walked right into the airport, right past the reservists with the M-16, pretending like I was in a hurry for some imaginary flight. I then got inside, found the bathroom in question, went inside and locked myself in a stall.

Figured you'd be safer in there?

No, I needed to throw up. I felt more trapped then than I ever did with my wife and the game was much more serious. This wasn't about a job or a house, this was about my life. For the first time I could remember, I felt stuck, helpless and, worst of all, scared out of my mind.

But anyway, after I got out of the stall and started cleaning myself up, I glanced at my watch and noticed that it was about a minute past five-thirty and, as if on cue, someone else walked into the bathroom carrying the exact same suitcase as me.

Can you describe him?

I didn't really look at his face much. He was a big black guy, probably around 6 foot, 6 foot 2 maybe, 250 pounds or so and he was wearing a nice suit, tie and everything. Looked kind of like a bouncer you know?

Anyway, when I saw him I started running my hands under the water like I was washing them and he took the sink next to me and started doing the same. I really don't know what came over me, I guess I just started acting out a scene from a movie I saw, but something clicked and it was like I knew just what to do.

"So where you flying to?" I asked.

"New York," he said with this really gravely voice, "Going to see my family."

"You know, I thought I'd seen you in New York, what's your name?"

"Cobra," he said more softly.

I exhaled loudly, it was the right guy. I could finally see the light at the end of the tunnel, as far as I was concerned, all I had to do was switch bags, get the Hell out of the airport and on the first bus back to Charlotte. It was like the weight of the situation had been lifted from me you know?

"That's a nice suitcase you got there," I said as I used my foot to nudge my bag over closer to him.

"Yep," he said, sliding his bag closer to me, "Real nice. Real expensive though. Plus, if you don't read the instructions on the inside flap you might not know how to use it and wind up doing something stupid."

The tone of his voice really spoke to me there. He wasn't just making fake conversation at this point, he was giving me instructions. I didn't know what, but I knew it was important.

"I know what you mean," I said, still trying to be nonchalant. There was a long pause while I waited for him to say something else, when I was certain he had nothing left I added, "Well, it's been nice chatting, I best be on my way," as I scooped up the bag he came in with.

I turned to leave but as I stepped away he called from the sink, "Just remember, those bags are very expensive, don't let anything happen to yours, it would be a real shame if it did."

Pretty ominous, if subtle warning wasn't it?

Yeah, especially with the way he said it. It was very condescending and threatening. Right then I was more scared of him than the guys outside with the machine guns.

So what did you do now that you had the bag?

I got out of the airport as fast as I could without drawing attention. I left by a different exit so different people would see me coming and going and I hailed a taxi out front as quickly as I got to the curb. I had him take me straight to the hotel where I barricaded myself in the room for a few minutes, trying to take in what had just happened.

Must have been hard.

It was, very hard actually. I had just made a major drug deal in a major airport bathroom with army men literally twenty feet away. Pretty gutsy. But when I calmed down I realized that I needed to at least check the suitcase and see what ?Cobra? was referring to by instructions.

Now, honestly, I expected the case to be locked, I figured anyone who put three-quarters a million dollars in a suitcase would lock it, but it sprang right open when I flicked the latches, exposing the contents to me without any fight at all.

What were the contents?

Money. All denominations and in all forms imaginable. There were several packs of fresh hundreds, some loosely strewn about twenties and even a few tens and fives floating around. It wasn't neat and pretty like in the movies, but it filled up the entire suitcase, and entire suitcase filled with cold, hard, green cash.

Must have been beautiful.

It was. It was. But I was too scared to mess with it right then. Instead, I just slid my hand into the front pouch and pulled out a sheet of paper with some handwriting on it.

What did it say?

It was hard to read, it had obviously been hastily written, but it basically told me that the heat was on Stan back in Charlotte due to the Private eye and that, rather than meet him at the Red Wolf Bar I was to meet an associate of his in the men?s restroom at the Greyhound station in Charlotte. Apparently it was the same deal though, a week from that day, 5:30 pm and so on only this time I'm looking out for the name ?Gabriel?, like the angel. I would take my 75 grand and pocket it in advance, then hand him the suitcase. Pretty simple.

The funny part though was that on the back of the sheet were the instructions on how to input a combination and lock the suitcase. I don't know if that was on purpose or not, but I followed them to the letter and set the dials to triple sevens, I guess I was hoping it would bring me luck.

Sounds like luck was already on your side though, I mean, one down, one to go right?.

Yeah, that's how I saw it. Or at least that's what I was telling myself as I got my return ticket from the bus station. I honestly figured that the worst was behind me.

I guess I should have learned though, the worst is never behind you…

Runaway: Part Ten

So how was the bus ride home?

I don't know really, I slept through most of it, I mean, most of the time I was in California I didn't sleep a wink. After that whole ordeal with the private eye, I just sort of stayed up most of the night wringing my hands.

Magically though, as I watched the bus leave the station and eventually cross the California state line, I just felt all of the weight, the guilt, the pain, everything get lifted right off of my shoulders. The air was thinner, the sun was brighter and even though Greyhound buses aren't the safest place in the world, especially when you're carrying 750 grand in a suitcase, it still felt as secure as home ever did.

Long story short, once I watched the bus turn it's back to the California sunset and cross the state line, I nodded off and only remember bits and pieces of the rest of the trip.

Anything interesting?

Not really. The same dirty Greyhound stations, the same bad food and the same dull scenery. You know, nothing special.

So what did you do when you made it to Charlotte?

Well, since I didn't want to sit around in that California hotel room, I left right after I was done at the airport. The bus trip itself was only four and a half days and my appointment was a week from the first pickup. This meant that when I got off the bus in Charlotte, though I could literally see the bathroom where the next drop would take place, I couldn't just wait around for it. Standing around a Greyhound station for 2 days with a suitcase full of money is just begging for it to be stolen.

What I ended up doing instead was catching a cab and going to another hotel. This one just a cozy chain hotel fairly close to the station. It was a bit of a dump, but it was nice enough for a few nights and it was still within walking distance to food and such. I couldn't complain.

Oh, and for the record, this time around at the hotel, I paid cash and I used a fake name. It's amazing really, but if you pay cash and put down enough for a few nights in advance, they won't even ask to see your ID or anything. They just took me at my word you know?

Maybe you just look like an honest guy?

Doubt it. By that point I'd been sleeping in the same clothes for almost a week and I looked like I was worn down to my wits end. All I really needed was a shower and a shave though, especially the shave. Beyond that I was pretty happy though.

Anyway though, you were still set up for two more boring days in a hotel room.

Not really. I mean, there wasn't a lot to do, but I did find a small hole in the wall bar down the street from the hotel to hang out at. I just told them all I was in town for some big graphic design convention and they just kept asking me about my job, my family and my life, hanging on every word like I was some kind of idol or something. I guess the fact that most of them were stone drunk might have had something to do with that.

Anyway, I spent some time there, watched some TV, got a lot of delivery pizza and kind of made a party of it. Honestly I felt like I was celebrating my survival and my freedom and, though I was still kind of lost and unsure about what to do, I made the most of it this go around.

Still, the honeymoon had to come to an end right?

Yeah, it did. Wednesday came around and it was time to take care of business. I walked to the bus station, it was about four blocks away, and ended up waiting nervously in the lobby for about twenty minutes while I watched the clock, praying and praying for 5:30 to come early.

Well, it didn't come early, but when the clock did finally read a few minutes before 5:30, I made my way into the bathroom and immediately choked back vomit.

Your nerves finally catch up with you?

No, the bathroom. My God. In college I used to hang out in bars and clubs all the time, I've seen my share of disgusting bathrooms. Hell, to be honest, I've thrown up in a few. But this was wretched. The smell alone was enough to make me gag and somewhere between the holes in the wall and the bad lighting, it was almost too much to take.

And the weird thing there was that the rest of the station was actually pretty nice. I mean, well-lit, fairly clean, you know, not bad for a bus station. It was like night and day, or something like that at least.

Anyway, I started breathing through my mouth and went over to the sink to start washing my hands. Unfortunately though, I wound up standing there for at least a good five minutes running my hands under the water. This guy was obviously late and if anyone walked in they'd probably think I had a disorder or something. I was literally washing my hands that long.

However, he did eventually come in, about 5:35 on my watch, and he followed suit, washing his hands in the sink next to me.

So what did this one look like?

He was different from the guy in California. The other guy was big and dressed nice. This guy was a smaller white guy with a goatee and long hair wearing khakis and a polo shirt. Looked kind of like a yuppie blues player or something. Same as last time though though, I probably couldn't draw you much of a picture of him. It wasn't his face I was interested in, just his name.

Well, he pulled up next to me and almost immediately started talking, "Hey, haven't I seen you around here before?"

"Probably not," I said pretending to focus on my hands, "I'm just passing through."

"Come on, what's your name?" he asked.

I didn't know how to answer really. I wasn't given instructions on what to call myself but since I figured "Gabriel" probably wasn't his real name, I could lie too, "Daniel," I said.

"Cool," he said, "My name is Duma."

I almost froze. He was the only guy in the bathroom, he was playing the game, but the name was wrong. I tried to keep my cool, but I know that he could see the terror in my eyes, "Duma, huh, like the angel of, um, silence isn't it?"

"Yeah," he said, puzzled, "You know your stuff don't you."

"Yeah, I've done some studying," I said turning off the water, "Well, I need to be going. I've got a ride to catch. I'll talk to you later though."

He went to speak to me again, but I just walked right past him and out the bathroom door. From there, I hurried across the lobby and, when I got outside of the station, I just broke out in a dead run. I mean, I'm not in any real shape or anything, but I ran, just ran all the way to the hotel.

You were that scared?

Yeah, I was. I got to the room, I threw open the door, dashed inside, shut it, locked it and leaned my body up against it like someone was going to break it down. I was just freaking out. I was seriously losing it.

I was there, alone, in Charlotte with three-quarters a million dollars in drug money on my person and no way to get rid of it. I'd never seen so much money in my life and it was amazing how eager I was to give it away.

So what did you do?

I paced the room and tried to think about what I wanted to do. You know, try to collect myself. I thought first about going to the Red Wolf bar and seeing if I could get in touch someone there, but I knew the cops would be there waiting on me. I then thought about going back to the bus station, but I figured that guy was probably a cop as well and that they'd be waiting on me there, besides, without knowing what this Gabriel guy looked like, I'd never be able to pick him out and he probably wouldn't be able to pick me out either.

So, all I really did know was that I was a sitting duck where I was. A hotel room with one door was not a smart place to hide out at. I needed to move. So, I basically started planning my escape.

I dashed to the nightstand and ripped open the phonebook. I knew that I had at least 75 thousand that I could use in order to get away, more if things became real ugly.

What was your plan?

First I wanted to go by bus again. But I realized that that would make me go back to the station where I envisioned swarms cops waiting on me. Flying was out of the question thanks to airport security and I didn't know enough about trains to make a call there. Besides, there you have the problem with waiting at the station again. Not a smart place to be.

So, what I eventually settled on was the idea of dipping into my funds and buying a cheap used car, you know, hopefully find a crooked car salesman where if you paid cash he'd look the other way type of thing. Figured it couldn't be too hard and it didn't have to last long, just enough to get me out of town.

Anyway, I had just about finished finding a car dealer when a knock came at the door. I almost completely froze. I was literally shaking as I set down the phone book and walked over to the door.

I looked through the peephole and I saw a guy that looked a lot like the one I'd seen at the bus station just awhile before. You know, long hair, goatee and all of that.

Frightened, I shouted, "Who is it?" through the door.

"It's Gabriel," he replied, "Open up!"

I exhaled so hard I though my lungs were going to collapse. I threw off the chain, undid the deadbolt and opened the door as fast as my nervous hands could move. When I got it open though, there he was, looking almost exactly like the first guy, just a little taller and with different eyes if that makes any sense.

Somehow though, I just knew that this guy was the real deal. He even acted more authentic, especially when he barged in the room and shut the door behind him without saying a word to me. Oddly enough, his rudeness was comforting, it just seemd more real I guess.

Well, he came in, checked the room quickly and switched off the lights, letting the room only be lit by the sun coming through the partially closed blinds. Beautiful sunset that day by the way.

When he was satisfied, he looked at me long and hard and said, "Ok, you didn't give the suitcase to the guy in the bus station did you?"

"No," I said pointing to the case on the bed.

"Good," he said as he dashed over to the bed and began to pick up the suitcase. I told him the combination to the lock and he threw it open.

"Have you taken your cut yet?" he asked.

I shook my head no, "I put it back after the bus station."

He started counting quickly and laid a pile of money on the bed. "Here's a hundred thousand, consider the extra twenty five grand a bonus for not screwing this up."

I walked over and sat on the bed where I started counting the money, "Thank you, but what the Hell is going on?"

"Bad shit man, bad shit. You know that private dick in L.A.? Well, Stan paid off some gang there to take him out. The dumbasses got caught, screwing up an easy as Hell job."

"I saw that on the news, they called it a gang shooting," I said trying to relax.

"Yeah, well, it was. That is, until those dipshits started talking. They told the police everything to save their own skin. Now their gang is pissed at us because two of their guys are in jail and the cops are after both of us."

"Shit, that is bad," I said, "Which gang was it though?" I asked knowing full and well I wouldn't recognize the name.

"Some hispanic gang, Los something or another. I don't remember Stan told me."

"So where is Stan now?"

"Stan, he's out on bail, hiding out. They arrested him on some bullshit charges. Got me too though. I just got out myself a few hours ago. That's why I missed our little appointment."

Suddenly I started realizing how serious this all was. Sure, it was Stan and them that were being arrested and shot at, but I was now a drug runner too, this could fall on me as well. "So, is any of this going to stick?"

"Not likely," Gabriel said, "Cops don't got any evidence but the weak confessions of two scared young gangster punks. They can't get him, not with his lawyers."

"That's good to hear," I muttered. For his part though, he just ignored my comment and kept counting.

On an on he went until he blurted out, "It's too dark in here, turn on the fucking light so I can finish this and get lost."

I obliged without saying a word and he wrapped up the last few stacks of bills in a hurry.

"Well, it's all here man. You're about fifty bucks short but right now I don't think anyone will care," he said standing up by the bed," just be sure to take your cut and get the Hell out of town. Where you go ain't my problem, but get lost and quick. Stan might call you when things cool down."

I nodded my approval and extended my hand to shake his hand. He met me with a firm grip and I said, "It was real nice to see you."

"Nice doing business with you too," he replied.

I turned to open the door but, just as my fingers touched the knob, I heard a muffled explosion. Though I didn't recognize what it was or where it came from, it was immediately followed by the sound of shattering glass and a loud, but dull thud.

I turned around just in time to Gabriel, his eyes already lifeless, fall straight to the ground like a bag of rocks.

I'll tell you, I've seen dead people before, I've been to funerals and such, but I'd never seen anyone die right in front of me and it was scary. I mean, he was obviously dead before he hit the ground. He didn't rattle, no blood spurted out of him or anything for that matter. None of the stuff you read about. The only thing I saw when he hit the ground was a deep dark red hole in his head that was kind of oozing this really dark blood out of it. It was like nothing I'd ever seen before.

I stood there in awe for a second, too stunned to even think about own safety you know? I knew he'd been shot, I knew I should take cover, but I just couldn't move.

I know I wasn't there long though, it sure seemed like an eternity. I snapped out of my trance when someone outside shouted, "That's Los Gorilas motherfucker! Los Gorilas!"

I knew then I was in deep shit.

Runaway: Part Eleven

Ok, let me get this straight. You're in the hotel room. You've got God knows how many thugs outside. And they've already shot this "Gabriel" guy. So, pretty much, you have no way out and nowhere to go.

That's the gist of it, yeah.

Sounds to me like you should be a dead man.

I probably should be.

So how is it that you're talking to me today?

Well, after Gabriel hit the ground, I kind of freaked out. Ok, I fucking panicked. I just kind of stood there a second, frozen. If I hadn't been over to the side of the window, who knows, they could have put a bullet in my head next. I mean, what's another body to them anyway?

But after awhile, a few seconds I guess, it sure seemed longer though, I heard their car doors open and I ran over to the gap between the beds and got down. I don't know what I was planning to do mind you, but I got down and just waited for that door to open. From where I was on my stomach I could see the door and I was just waiting for that doorknob to start turning. All that I could think, was that I was lying there like a bearskin rug and I was about to be as dead as one and the money in my pockets wasn't going to save me from that.

Anyway, the door never opened. I couldn't have been on the ground long before I heard the sound of sirens coming up the road. Soon enough, I could see blue and white lights all along the bottom of the window and it sounded like the entire parking lot was filling up with cop cars.

Then I heard what sounded like a dozen car doors opening and slamming all over the lot followed by, as if on cue, one of thugs yelling out "Fuckin' pigs!"

Then what happened?

Then there was shooting, lots and lots of shooting. I heard big guns, small guns, guns that shot fast, guns that shot slow. It sounded like a damn war out there and I was just waiting for a few stray bullets to come in my window. I honestly thought I was as good as dead, or at least as good as arrested.

But then, I don't know, something kicked in. You know, in college I learned about the fight of flight instinct that we all have. That thing where, in extreme situations, we either automatically fight or run, whichever we think will keep us alive the longest. Well, I chose the latter, I ran like hell.

Without even knowing what I was doing, I sprang up, grabbed the suitcase off the ground by Gabriel, dashed out the door, ran along the walkway, around a corner, down the stairs and I didn't stop moving until I was a block and a half away flagging down a taxi like a madman.

Personally, I'm just grateful that the cops and the thugs were too busy shooting at each other to even notice my escape. I mean, I don't know for sure but I don't think any stray shots came my way.

Wait a minute, go back a second, did you say you grabbed the suitcase?

Yeah, I did.

Now, what the hell made you do that?

I don't know. I had a hundred grand in my pockets, I probably could have gotten a new identity and a new life with that and that alone, but, I don't know. I guess it was just an instinct. I wasn't really thinking right then you know? Besides, the way Gabriel dropped it, the case was almost blocking the door. Maybe I just went to move it but never put it down. I don't know, ok? It was stupid.

Yeah, because now everyone has over half a million reasons to hunt you down.

Don't remind me, I feel dumb enough as it is. Maybe I'm just more greedy than I thought. Why isn't important though, what is important is the fact that I took the case and I got the cab with no unwanted holes in my body.

Alright, you're in the cab, then what?

Well, the only plan I had was that stupid one I'd cooked up while wringing my hands in the hotel room. Though I'd already forgotten the name of the dealership I had chosen, I figured it was as good of an idea as any and I asked the cab to take me to a car dealership where I could get a used car cheap if I paid cash.

At first I didn't want to tell him everything I wanted, I didn't want to make him suspicious or anything. But after looking at his picture, I realized he'd probably paid a few debts to society and halfway down the block I added, "Oh, and I don't want to sign too many papers either."

He looked over his shoulder at me and with a wink said, "I gotcha buddy, I know just the place." After that, he just turned around, faced the road and didn't say another word the rest of the trip.

And that was a long cab ride too. I thought Atlanta was bad, man, we must have gone for nearly an hour, even racked up a forty dollar cab fare. Turns out though he was taking me to this small dealership on the Greenville side of I-85. I probably even passed it on the way into town but never noticed. It was one of those dumps with a bunch of old cars out front and a trailer for an office. Though I never caught the name of it, I kind of pictured it to be an "Honest Bob's Used Car Lot" or something like that.

Anyway, he dropped me off there and told me to talk to Mike inside. I didn't even think twice about it at this point, I'd been relying on strangers so long that I didn't even wince at the thought of walking into this dump and asking a perfect stranger for help with illegal activities. I know that sounds crazy, but that's the way it was.

Sounds like you were getting used to your life of crime a little bit more.

Doubt it, it was probably more just a mixture of fear and confusion. I mean, that day is still a blur to me now, right then it was a huge mess.

Regardless, I walked in there and was startled when the door beeped at me as I walked through, so much so I almost kicked the little speaker out of reflex. After I got my composure back a little, I looked up and saw a young secretary carefully polishing her nails at her desk.

"Can I help you?" she asked without even looking up from her buffing.

"Yeah, I need to talk to Mike."

"MIKE!" she shouted into the back of the building, "You got a customer!"

Literally a second later a short, kind of round man, came power-walking into the room. He had thinning hair, a real ugly, pit bull-like face and a bad, bad suit that, while I guess not really hideous, just looked horrible on him. Maybe elbow pads aren't his thing, but even though he didn't fit the bill of your slick car salesman in a plaid suit, he sure looked cheesy enough.

He kind of thrust his hand out at me and said, "I'm Mike, Mike Warshowski, what can I do for ya!"

I shook his hand as firmly as I could, "My name's Daniel," I said using my now-standard fake name, "And I need your help."

"Well, what do you need?" he said looking around nervously.

I looked over at the secretary, "Can we discuss this in private, as in, your office?"

"Sure thing buddy, come on in," he said as he turned and gave me a signal to follow him, "Right this way."

He led me around the back of where the secretary was and into his office. His office, just for the record, was a laugh. He had this huge, overstated oak desk that, when combined with the two large faux leather chairs, almost took up the whole room. That isn't saying much though because the whole thing wasn't much bigger than a large kitchen. The bottom half of his walls were covered by this cheesy wood paneling and the top half was so cluttered with photos of himself and his family you almost couldn't see the hideous green wallpaper beneath it. It was like he was trying to make a shrine to himself or something like that.

Sounds like a pretty disturbing guy. Not the type of person I'd want to buy a car from if you ask me…

I didn't want to either, but I really didn't have much in the way of a choice. Besides, even if he was a bit of narcissist, he was nice enough. I mean, I didn't want to hit him or anything.

Anyway, we sat down, he behind the desk and me in one of those overstuffed chairs, and he leaned in and asked, "So what can I do for ya?"

"I need to buy a car in a hurry and I'm willing to pay cash."

A stupid grin came across his face, "Well, I think we can help you there. Whatcha lookin' for exactly?"

"You didn't let me finish," I interrupted, "I have a few catches."

"Okay…"

"First, I don't want to pay a lot, something cheap but sturdy is the best thing for me. Second, I don't want to fill out any paperwork. I've got some people following me and I can't leave a paper trail."

He rolled back in his chair and dragged the palm of his hand down his face, "I see."

I leaned in and placed my elbows on his desk, "Can you help me?"

"Well, I can help you, that's not a problem," he said still leaning back in his chair, "It's just that this paperwork stipulation isn't going to be easy."

"What do you mean?"

He stood up and started pacing behind his desk, "You see, if I give you the keys to a car without any paperwork and you get pulled over, you won't have any registration, right? Well, the cops are going to think that it's a stolen car and call me to check it out and I'll have to tell them that yes, it is stolen because I don't want no trouble from the cops. They're in my business enough as it is. I could get you a stolen car, I know some guys who work in that, but why don't I just slap a bullseye on your ass and call you target practice for the cops."

At that point, I realized how stupid my idea was. I mean, what the hell was I thinking? In this day and age you can't buy a box of cereal without having a record of the transaction, where was I going to get a car without leaving a trail?

"So what do we do," I asked feebly.

He sat down in his chair and spun around to the side, propping his feet up on the corner of his desk, "I don't know. Let me think a minute though and see if I can come up with something."

He then kind of went off into this trance, it was weird actually. He just closed his eyes and seemed to drift off. Though my chair squeaked every time I moved in it, it never phased him. He was almost like a monk or something, I never thought I'd see that out of this guy.

Then, after about three minutes, he snapped out of it and said, "Follow me I got an idea," as he stood up and headed out of the room.

He took me around to the back of the building, if you can call it a building, where, on a patch of gravel in the middle of a field, he had this hideous maroon tank of a car parked. Pointing to it he said, "You like it? It's an '86 Buick."

"I know, I think my grandmother drove one…"

"Then she was a smart woman," he said, obviously in full salesman mode, "These things are real beauties. A bit hard on the old gas pump, but they run like dreams and are as safe can be."

"I know, nothing can get within ten feet of you…"

"Best of all for you, it's my loaner car. Right now anyone can drive it anytime they want. I'm willing offer you, shall we say, and 'extended loan' for eight hundred dollars."

"Eight hundred, that's pretty damn steep for this. Does it work?"

"Try it for yourself," he said rummaging through his jacket pockets and tossing me the key, "Everything on it works, even the tape deck and the AC."

I opened the door and almost choked on the smell. It was like an odd mixture of body odor, cigar smoke and dirty diapers. After getting behind the wheel, setting my bag down on the seat next to me and adjusting the driver's seat so I could reach the pedals, I slid the key in the ignition and gave it a firm turn. Just like he said it would, the motor came to life immediately and a few quick taps of the gas pedal proved it was still responsive enough to move.

"Now," Mike continued, "If you want to take it for a test drive we can go around the block once or twice."

"I don't have time for that," I shot back, "Will this thing get me to Greenville?"

"Greenville and anywhere else you want to go. I'd bet my life on it."

"That's good, because I am," I responded snidely.

"So, ya gonna take it?"

"I don't have much choice. I need to get moving and fast, I said as I reached into my pocket and began counting out $800 worth of fifty dollar bills.

Mike's eyes got real big when they saw my wad of cash, "You made the right choice son, this is one of the best cars I got. But tell me, what in the hell are you in such a hurry to get to Greenville for?"

"I've got a friend to see and I need to see him ASAP," I said handing over the cash.

"Well, I won't keep you then, but is there anything else I can do for you?"

"Yeah, I'll take one of those pine air fresheners if you've got one."

"Sorry, we're plum out," he said as he finished counting the money I'd given him.

"Figures."

With that, I shut the door, rolled up the window, put the car in gear and started driving off with only a rough idea of where the Interstate was and enough fear to push me all the way to Greenville.

Well, that and 750 thousand dollars in the passenger seat.

Runaway: Part Twelve

So, you left the used car lot to head back to Greenville?

Yeah, and it wasn't a pleasant trip either. I stopped at the first gas station I could for some air fresheners but it didn't help any. The stench was so choking that even with the windows down I felt like I had to breathe through my mouth.

To make matters worse, the car didn't sound too good. I guess it ran good enough, but I always got the feeling that something was going to break at any second. Could have just been the fact I hate Buicks though.

Anyway, Greenville…

Sorry, got off track.

I knew I had to go to Greenville. It was the only place I could get help and there was only one person who could give me that help, Little John. I figured if he had the contacts to get me into this mess, he might have the ones I needed to get out. Seemed logical at least.

Anyway, it was starting to be evening when I got there, so I figured there was a good shot Little John would be at work. I pulled into a small gas station and got directions to the Blue Moon Bar.

Five minutes later, I was pulling into the gravel parking lot and walking through the front door, suitcase in hand. Sure enough, Little John was standing behind the bar cleaning some glasses.

I'll bet he was shocked to see you.

That'd be putting it modestly. He was shocked and he wasn't happy about it.

The second he saw me in there he blurted out "Hell no!" and started walking toward me motioning for me to leave. You could tell by the way he was walking he was freaked, for a big guy, he sure can move.

Anyway, when he got up to me he said, "Hell no! Hell no! Get the Hell out of here boy! I can't have a corpse laying on my floor! Don't be bringing that stuff in here!" while making huge gestures toward the door.

"It's OK! It's OK!" I shouted back, "No one followed me, it's safe."

"Yeah, for an hour, only until they find out you're here and make the drive down. They gonna kill you and they don't care where you are."

I let out a long sigh, it was still sinking in how much trouble I was in, "Listen, if you help me out, I'll be out of your way quicker. You owe me at least a few minutes."

He got really angry when I said that and looked me dead in the eyes. He went to speak but the anger kind of drained out of his face and he said, "Yeah, I guess you're right, come on back it's safer there."

He led me to the back of the bar into a small storeroom. Unlike Stan's room, this one was actually used for storage. He told me to "Pull up a crate" and I planted myself on a case of Jim Bean.

"You're in deep shit son, deep shit," he said to me.

"Yeah, I know. How do I get out of it?"

"Well, you can get rid of that suitcase there."

"How do I do that?" I asked.

Little John kind of pushed his fingers into his forehead and started thinking, "Well, if you give it to Stan, Los Gorillas will kill you, you give it to the Gorillas, Stan will kill you. You can give it to the cops and you'll do fifteen years in the slammer, of course, you probably won't survive that either," he said with a chuckle. "You're monkey-fucked."

"That's not helping me," I said.

"Heh, sorry man. Just telling it like it is. Sorry."

He's got a point you know. You were screwed.

Yeah, I never thought giving away over half a million would be so damn hard. I guess I should have taken a hint from government and blown it on a useless study or something.

Anyway, I thought about the situation for a second and asked him, "Why do the Gorillas want the money so bad, it's not theirs anyway?"

"Two of their guys are in jail thanks to Stan, they kind of feel like Stan owes them. Stan of course, disagrees. He always was a piss-ant about these things."

"Well, maybe I can call them you know, tell them to work it out with Stan and leave me out of it."

"Doubt it buddy," he said, "Their leader ain't exactly the negotiating type."

"You know him?"

"Yeah, we go back a ways."

"Well, what can you tell me? Maybe I can think of something."

Little John got lost in thought. He pulled a pack of cigarettes out of his shirt pocket and lit up. "When I was fourteen," he began, "I moved to L.A. My old man had been in the Marines so we moved around a lot. When he finally quit, he got a job with an L.A. Trucking company and I started going to this piss-poor high school on the south side."

"You, in L.A.?" I said with a small laugh, "No offense but I thought you were a good ol' boy."

Little John waved the cigarette in front of my face, "I am and don't you forget it," he said. "Anway, I met this fella by the name of Miguel Hernandez. He was a short, fat, hairy little bastard, got picked on a lot you know? Everyone called him a gorilla because of the way he looked. Kind of bonded with him, me being the new kid and all. Well, unfortunately for the other kids, he hit a late puberty. By the end of my second year, he'd gained a foot in height and and almost a hundred pounds. Worst of all, that fucker could hit. See this tooth here," he said motioning to a chipped tooth in his mouth, "Miguel did that to me just fuckin' around."

"Nice guy," I said.

"He's got a temper, but he's cool when you know him. Anyway though, I wasn't there long. My dad's company moved to Greenville and I've been here raising Hell ever since."

"Let me guess though, you've kept in touch with Miguel."

"Yep," he said.

"And you were the one that put Stan in touch with him."

"Yep," he said, "Never thought this shit would happen though."

"So why don't you call him up and help me out!" I screamed.

"Calm down man, Jesus, you're louder than a kid getting a drum set for Christmas. I'd do that if it'd help. But Miguel is a businessman now. Money's money and friends are friends. He wants his damn money and he doesn't give a shit about his friends, I'm surprised he ain't pissed at me."

I'll Bet that was a heartbreaker.

Oh, it was. I just kind of slumped over on the crate and almost started crying you know. I was really choking back tears. For the first time I really, really started wishing I hadn't left my wife.

"So I guess I just keep running," I said, "Running until they finally catch me."

"Yeah, well," Little John said, "At least you've got enough money to make it a good time. Could be the best time of your life."

I paused a second to let things sink in, "No it won't. I won't be able to enjoy it, even if it lasts for eighty years."

"How do you figure that?" Little John asked sitting upright suddenly.

"I'm going to always be looking over my shoulder. Every moment I'm awake I'm going to be waiting to get shot. I can't live like that. I don't even think you could."

Little John twisted his toe into the concrete, "Yeah, well, maybe. But what else are you going to do?"

"I'm going to go back."

Little John shot up like a rocket and almost kicked his crate across the floor, "You crazy-ass bastard! What the Hell are you thinking?"

"That I got into this mess because I ran away and that running farther won't fix it."

He started shaking his head, "You'll get your ass killed."

"It's better than the alternatives."

Little John started pacing around the small storage room for a bit, puffing at his his cigarette every few steps. When he was done, he flicked the butt to the ground and said, "You serious about this? Really serious?"

"I don't have a choice."

"Well, if you're going back, at least let me give you some protection," he said getting very serious.

"You mean a gun."

"No, I mean a condom. Of course I mean a gun dipshit," he said rummaging through one of the boxes. After a few seconds, he produced a small gun and showed it to me.

Kind of upping the ante isn't it?

That's what I thought and I was scared of it. I just kind of looked at it for a second not sure what to do, "I… I… I've never used a gun before, I wouldn't even know what to do with it," I eventually said.

"You ever used a computer before," he said. I nodded yes and he continued, "Ain't much different, just point and click," he said taking aim at a box over to the side and squeezing the trigger causing the gun to produce a click as it tried to fire an empty chamber.

"Listen, I'm serious man, I can't use a gun."

"And I'm serious, you need one. At least carry it so you can't say I didn't do nothing for ya," he said handing me the gun and a full clip, "Now, it's only a 22 so it ain't gonna stop a gorilla, if you catch my drift, but it might help you out."

"Thanks, I'll keep that in mind," I said. After looking at the gun and thinking for a few seconds I said, "Do you have a way I can contact this Miguel guy?"

"I can give you his cell phone number but I don't know where the guy is right now," he said pulling a napkin out of his pocket and writing the number down.

"I'll work on that later, I need to get moving," I said standing up.

"Woah, do you have any idea what you're going to do when you get there?"

"I've got a plan," I said slyly, "But I need to hurry if I'm going to make it work. If they find me first, well, dead men have no plans."

"I hear that one brother," he said shaking my hand, "Take care and, um, don't call me alright? I'm in enough shit as it is."

"Not as much as I am," I said with a smile, "But don't worry, I won't be in touch."

Runaway: Part Thirteen

I'll bet it was a long drive back to Charlotte.

You have no idea, even the car didn't want to go. I felt like I was having to floor it to get it up to Interstate speed on the way back. I dunno, I guess it just didn't want to go where the danger was, if that makes any sense.

Then again, I guess it could have just been my subconscious taking over my foot. Seems more likely looking back on it.

Anyway, so what did you do when you got back to Charlotte?

Well, since I wanted to get off the road as quickly as I could, I didn't know how much longer the car would hold out anyway, I found this fleabag hotel just south of the downtown area and plopped down there. I made sure to give yet another fake name when I checked in just in case these guys were smart and were calling around. Besides, I figured by then the cops would be looking for me for certain and I didn't want to chance any interference from them, not right then anyway.

However, after I got done checking in, I felt like a ghost. I pulled the shades closed, turned out the lights and stretched out on the bed, kind of wallowing in the near-total darkness. I just laid there, trying to figure out what the Hell I was going to do while staring at the textured ceiling. It was really just one giant wash of hopelessness and self-pity though, at least that's how it felt.

But the really bad news was that there weren't any answers coming. Though I could feel Little John's gun in my pocket, the thought of using it or even touching it just made me sick. I'd never liked guns and this, well, using it against someone, even if they were trying to kill me, got me all knotted up inside. The idea of taking a life was just too much for some reason.

But you were going to use it if you had to, right?

I honestly didn't know right then. I tried to envision a shootout and what I'd do. But I honestly figured I was dead either way, so I didn't see much point in it. I even briefly debated turning the gun on myself. You know, ending it right then and there, quick, clean, painless. I was a weird kid growing up, I never feared death, but I feared suffering for the rest of my life. I guess that's still the way my brain works.

It just seemed appealing to get it over with in a way that I knew wouldn't hurt, not for long anyway.

So what stopped you?

Well, my brain got working. I realized that this whole mess wasn't about me, it was about the money and that maybe, just maybe, I could get out of this and, if I could, I had a good chance at a really long and happy life. I didn't want to piss that away because I got scared at the last second. It didn't feel right. Besides, dead is dead, whether it's at your own hand or by some enraged gangster. It's all the same.

Still though, I needed a plan and there wasn't one. There was only one suitcase and two people that wanted it. Before talking to Little John, I was hopeful I could give it to the Gorillas and try to make Stan understand the score. But, if Little John said Stan would kill me, I believed him. Loyalty only goes so far and I don't think anyone in this business will take losing half a million lightly.

But then it hit me, what I needed to do was get myself out of it. This wasn't my money, it wasn't my feud. I had my cash and, if they wanted to fight over the rest, I should let them. I mean, I didn't ask for this, I was just doing a quick run, I'm not the one that got things so screwed up.

Actually, if you think about it, you did. I mean you're the one that attracted the private eye in the…

Shut up, ok, I know that. Still though, I mean, listen, it wasn't my fault and I wasn't about to be the one to die for it. However, the only way I could avoid that was to get them to stop coming after me and, or so I figured, the best way to do that was to get them to go after each other. I mean, that shouldn't be too hard, they're the ones they hate anyway. It's just a matter of setting it up.

Makes sense to me, but how were you going to do that?

Well, the only way I could do that was to get them face to face. As Little John pointed out, if I gave one of them the money, the other would come after me as well as go after the other guy. At that point, I just joined the other team and became someone's enemy and I seriously doubt I can turn to my newfound friend for protection. It's not as if they're going to die for me just because I gave them the money.

No, I had to get them face to face and there was no way they were going to do it voluntarily. It's not like I could throw a party and invite the two of them. A case of beer isn't going to soothe this one over. Besides, they really aren't the talkative types from what I can tell.

So, I decided to resort to trickery. I figured if I promised each of them the money and set up a place and time to meet, they'd both show up. It was inevitable. I mean, what were they going to do, say no? Then, I figured, once I had the two of them face to face, I could weasel my way out of it. I wasn't sure how, but it at least resembled a plan at the moment. It was the best thing going at least.

If that was the best plan you had, you were hopelessly screwed.

Tell me about it. And the bad part is, right then, it seemed brilliant.

But anyway, since Miguel's cell phone number was burning a hole in my pocket, I decided to go ahead and give it a try. I first tried to dial on my hotel phone, but it didn't have long distance access and the phone number had a California area code. At least I guess it was a California code.

So I went down to a pay phone and tried to call there, but it asked for almost five dollars in change before making my call. Without much choice though, I went down to a gas station and broke a five into quarters and dimes so I could make the call.

It seemed like I poured a pound of change into that phone, but, eventually it sprang to life and the phone started ringing. That was actually a huge relief. The last time I tried to call a cell phone on a pay phone I got that "phone off or caller out of range" message and watched as the phone ate all of my change.

But the relief went away pretty quick when he picked up the phone. He had a really gruff voice and a thick Spanish accent. Worst of all, he was pissed. He sounded as if I just woke him up or something.

"Who is this? What do you want?" he barked into the phone.

I was kind of stunned for his second. Not only was he shouting but the volume on the phone was cranked up. I briefly thought my ear drums were going to explode.

"Listen," I said timidly, trying to let the ringing clear out of my ears,"You don't know me but my name is Jake and, well, I've got your money."

"You're the gringo with the suitcase?" he asked. His voice, to me anyway, sounded more puzzled than angry right then.

"Yeah, that's me," I said.

"Then you're a dead man!" he shouted, causing me to pull the phone away again.

That gave me a real sinking feeling in my stomach, if I'd doubted his seriousness before there wasn't any left. "Listen, that's just it, I don't want to be a dead man, I want to give you the money."

Then he got really confused. He didn't say anything for a bit, but I could hear him whispering to others around him. "You want to give me, the money?" he asked.

"Yes, the money, in exchange for my life. You let me live, you can have your cash."

I could almost see him thinking on the other end of that line. I could tell he wasn't sure about what to do, but he was at least thinking about it hard. Better than nothing I guess, "Alright chico, you give me the case, you're not my enemy and I spare your life. That seems fair. Just meet me…"

"Wait a minute," I interrupted, "There's more. I don't know you, so I can't be too careful you know? Meet me in the lot behind the Greyhound station at eleven o'clock tomorrow night and I'll give you the money then. But come alone and come unarmed. I'll do the same."

Wait a minute, you were dictating terms to a gangster? That seems pretty outrageous to me.

It did to me too, but I didn't even realize what I was doing right then. I didn't see it as dictating terms to a killer, I just saw it as putting a plan into action, I had my eyes on the goal and really didn't take them off of it until I hung up the phone, that was when I realized what I had done.

Right then though, I just listened to Miguel think really hard. He was rubbing against the phone so I figure he was either moving around, scratching his forehead or, I don't know, something. But he was thinking.

"Alright gringo, I'll play your game. But if you don't bring the money, you're a dead man. We'll find you and don't you forget that."

"I don't see…" I didn't even finish the sentence before he hung up. Regardless though, he was gone and part one was finished.

You're pretty lucky if you ask me.

Yeah, well, luck had carried me real far up to that point. I just hoped it lasted another day or two. Because, then, I could be scott free.

I went back to the room and didn't waste any time with celebrating. I still had to call Stan and get him to agree to the same terms. After all, if he didn't then I'm screwed and on the run from Stan's hitmen because there's no way I was going to blow off Miguel because Stan didn't show up. That's just dumb.

The first thing that I did was I looked in the phone book and called the Red Wolf Bar. Unfortunately, there was no answer. I must have called at least a dozen times before accepting the fact that no one was going to pick up, no matter how hard I tried.

At that point, I kind of freaked. I didn't know Stan's last name so I could look up his home number and all that I had on me was the address and number for the bar. I was pretty helpless.

So what did you do?

Well, I paced a lot, I swear I wore down a tread in the carpet of that small hotel room. Not that it had much carpet to start with.

But, in the end, I decided that I only had one choice and that was to go to the bar myself. It wasn't safe, I knew that, but I figured that they wouldn't kill me unless there was a reasonable chance they could get their money back and, if I stashed it, they'd need me alive at least long enough to hand over the money.

Well, it made sense right then at least.

Anyway, I stashed the money in the room safe. Now, I saw on one of those news magazines about how insecure those really were and you can open them with a car key or something similar, but I figured it was more of a hiding spot than a secure place, that's all I really needed.

So, with so much fear that I was literally nauseous, I called the cab company and got a ride to the bar. I did make sure to bring Little John's gun though, even though I didn't want to use it, the last thing I wanted was to get into a scuffle, change my mind about taking a life and then not have it. It'd be a very bad way to die. Better safe than sorry I suppose.

When I got to the bar, I told the cab to wait outside and dashed in, hoping to find, well, I don't know what I was hoping for. I really didn't know what to expect and what, if anything, would get me out alive.

So what did you find?

What I found was the bartender and nothing more. The place was empty, chairs on the tables empty, and the bartender was behind the bar cleaning glasses with a rag.

"We're closed," he said without looking up at me.

I walked up tot he bar and sat down at a stool, "I'm here to see Stan, it's important."

The bartender looked over at me and his eyes got wide. Though the rest of his face was a as still as ice, his eyes got really, really big. "It's you."

"Yeah, it's me."

"You know," he continued, "Stan's really eager to talk to you he told me that, if you came here, I was to hold you for him, by force if needed."

Then I realized my reflex. I reached down and felt the gun in my pocket. I didn't pull it out or anything, but I felt it there. I guess it hit me that I wasn't as much of a pacifist as I thought I was.

"But if you do that, he won't get his money."

"Pardon?"

"I've got the money stashed in a safe place. Only I can get to it. You hurt me or hold me now, you, Stan, nor anyone else gets the cash. Pretty simple."

"I see, so what do you propose?" he asked, still rubbing at the same glass.

"I want to talk to Stan. I'm willing to give him the money, but only under my conditions. I have to look out for my safety you know?"

The bartender put up the glass he had in his hands and turned around to face me, resting his elbows on the bar and giving me an evil eye, "Stan's not here, he's in a safe place too. But I will gladly pass along any message you want to give him."

Let me tell you, the tone in his voice sounded like gravel. He was mad, madder than Miguel probably, but he was hiding it well. He didn't strike me as the type to blow up, which was good, but I was still waiting for him to reach across the bar and grab my throat and he was so big I didn't know what I was going to do if he did snap.

"Just tell him that I want to give him the money back, but I want to be safe about it. Tell him to meet me in the lot behind the Greyhound station eleven o'clock tomorrow night. Tell him to come alone and unarmed. I'll give it to him then, no problems. Do you think he'll make it?"

"I'd bet my life on it," he said with a growl.

All I could do was chuckle to myself, I looked down at the table and said, "That's good, because I am."

"He'll be there, don't worry."

"Thanks," I said, "I appreciate your help."

With that, I left the bar. However, even before I got out the door the bartender was getting on the phone and, presumably, calling Stan. For me, it was mission accomplished and I was alive.

Still though, that seemed to be a pretty small accomplishment considering what I had in front of me and that doesn't even count the brutal waiting.

Runaway: Part Fourteen

Must have been a long wait for eleven o’clock the next day?

Oh it was. When I hatched this wonderfully brilliant scheme, I set the time so far into the future to make sure that I could get them there. Unfortunately, after about an hour of waiting, I realized I’d sold myself short. We probably could have done it right then, that night but instead I was left with almost a full 24 hours until the big showdown.

Wow, one day to live, I thought that only came up in psychology and philosophy classes.

Me too and every time I got asked one of those questions, I always had this really long answer of all these incredible things I wanted to do. Things like, eat a big ice cream sundae, kiss a beautiful woman, all of that stuff. But there I was, sitting on a ton of cash, with 24 hours until possibly the last meeting of my life and I couldn’t do a damn thing.

Every time I thought about eating, I wanted to throw up. Every time I thought about leaving, I was afraid that Miguel or one of his followers would nail me. Every time I thought about doing anything, fear just shut me down.

I ended up spending most of my time alternating between pacing rapidly in the hotel room and just curling up on the bed, choking back tears.

Sounds like a miserable way to spend your last day.

I know, but I couldn’t help it. I thought that I was so brave for running away like that, for taking charge of my miserable life and doing something, no matter how stupid, to fix it. You know? I felt like I was in charge of my own destiny, my own man sort of. Instead, well, there I was possibly hours away from death too frightened to move. No dignity.

It’s kind of hard to think back on you know? Not something I want to remember.

Still though, time moved on.

Yeah, it did. Sure, the second hand seemed to move slower with every tick, but it move forward. Just painfully slow.

Well, I can understand that. So what happened when you left?

Well, I got directions to the Greyhound station from the hotel clerk and drove myself down there, being careful to park the car about three blocks away from the station. Then I found myself trying to walk through the shadows in order to get to the lot behind the station.

It’s funny though, it used to be if I ever had to walk through the bad part of town, which is where bus stations always are, I’d be careful to always walk under the lights. This time though, I was scared of the light. Even with the gun in my pocket, I didn’t feel safe in the light, especially considering what was in that damn case.

Unfortunately, the small back lot was too well lit. Though it only had four lights to cover the whole area and two of those were blinking like the bulbs were dying, there area still seemed flooded with light. Well, comparatively I guess. After all, it was the black of night.

Anyway, I stood there in the middle of this lot trying to get a feeling for my surroundings. I realized immediately that I’d picked a bad spot for this. Though the lot itself was lit, the whole back of the building wasn’t and either way around the sides of the building you went, there was nothing but shadows.

Of course, the only reason I picked that spot was I wanted an outside location that no one would be at. On that note, I guess I did pretty good, there wasn’t a car or a person to be found.

Must have made it scary though.

That’s putting it mildly. I was nervous, so nervous I was twitching. I could feel my hand shaking, shaking so violently you could see the case move. I’d always had a nervous twitch, it was real bad growing up, but now it was driving me nuts.

But I did get lucky on one front, Stan didn’t sneak up on me. He came out of the shadows in such a way that I could hear his footsteps long before he became visible. Though it was a tense moment hearing the steps but not knowing who they belonged to, if he’d crept up on me, I probably would have shot him dead away.

Instead, he just approached me slowly, calmly, with his hands in his pockets and his head low. It kind of put me at ease a bit. I know that you’re supposed to watch someone’s hands when they’re approaching you in a tense moment like that, but he was just so cool and calm about it, I don’t know, it stopped me from shaking, that’s for certain.

“Stan,” I said trying not to let my voice crack.

“Jake,” he replied stepping closer to me. When he looked up at me he had this focused look in his eyes. I couldn’t read it. It was like he was mad at me, but was all business about this.

So you’re saying he was hostile?

Yeah, but not in a threatening way. More like a mad parent or something like that.

“Is that the money?” he asked pointing at the bag.

Then I panicked. Stan was here, but no Miguel. If he was just late or a no-show, I had no idea, but I knew I had to stall.

“Yeah, it’s here, but first we need to talk about something?”

“What’s that?” Stan asked flatly.

My brain was tap-dancing as fast as it could. I didn’t have a stall plan and, in addition to looking like it was all made up in advance, I needed to be calm about it as so not to do anything stupid. Not any easy job for a guy who’s toughest decision before hand was saying “I do.”

“I don’t want any trouble from you or those Gorillas. I’ve been through enough Hell for one lifetime and I don’t need to spend the rest of my life running from them. I want a second chance, that’s why I came to you in the first place.

I had to congratulate myself. It’s was some Grade-A bullshit. How I spilled that out while thinking “Hurry up Miguel” over and over again, I had no idea.

“What the Hell makes you think I can fix your problem with the Gorillas when I can’t fix my own? Not to mention the police and everyone else that wants a piece of me. What makes you think I could protect you?”

I froze. I just totally froze. I’d run out of BS and getting shot down like that caused my brain to lock up.

“You… you’ve got the money, can’t you, you know, work something out with them?” was all I could stammer.

“Miguel isn’t the type to ‘work’ anything out,” Stan said without missing a beat, “He’s a killer, that’s all he knows because it’s what he grew up around.”

“You talking about me hombres!” a voice called out from the other side of the lot.

Stan and I both locked up and slowly turned our heads to the side, sure enough, there was Miguel, standing there huffing mad power walking his way toward us.

Wait a second, how’d you know it was Miguel? You’d never seen him, right?

Well, first off, he fit Little John’s description to a T. The guy looked like a gorilla, short, stocky and all of that. But the main thing, for me, was that voice, I remember it from the phone and I’ll never forget it as long as I live. It sounds like gravel being poured on a megaphone. There’s no mistaking it.

Anyway, he started coming over toward us and said, “I knew I couldn’t trust you man, don’t trust a rich gringo to keep his word.”

“What the Hell is he doing here?” Stan asked me under his breath,

It tried to eek out an “I don’t know” but Miguel spoke up again drowning us out.

“You got my money there in that case?” he said.

“I wanted to talk about the money Miguel,” I said, trying to sound forceful, “I wanted to work something out.”

Miguel’s body language changed, he started walking faster swinging his shoulders wider. Then, when got within a few paces of us, he slid his hand down the back of his pants, pulled out a gun and started waving it at us.

“There ain’t nothing to discuss chicos, just you giving me my money.”

Hold up, I thought you told him to show up unarmed?

I did. But he didn’t listen did he? Not that it’s a shock, after all, I was armed and I wasn’t alone. I was halfway expecting Stan to pull out a weapon and for the three of us to get into a shootout or something like that.

Instead though, Miguel just stood there waving this freaking hand cannon at us. I mean, this gun was huge. Must have been a forty-five, at least. It looked like it could take your whole head off in one blast. Not a pretty image to say the least.

Anyway, Miguel just stood there and pointed the gun at me. He looked down at the bag and said, “That the money?”

“Yes,” I said weakly.

Miguel took three slow steps backwards, “Then toss that shit over here, let me see it.”

With a slow, smooth motion I hurled the bag as close to him as I could get it. But since I didn’t want to make any sudden movements, the bag fell a few feet short of him making him walk over to it.

Miguel opened the case and carelessly knelt down to look at the money. While he was distracted by the cash, I thought briefly about either pulling out my gun and shooting him or taking flight, but all I could do instead was start at his gun, which was still firmly in his hand, the one resting on top of the open lid.

But after a few seconds of poking around in the case, he suddenly shot up and shouted, “What the fuck is this? It ain’t all here.”

I glanced over at Stan who had a puzzled look on his face. He couldn’t believe it and, frankly neither could I. I thought I’d planned it perfectly.

Wait a second, you planned this?

Well, when I left the hotel, I left about half of the cash in the safe on purpose.

What? Why did you get greedy now?

It wasn’t greed. I figured if they couldn’t work anything out and one of them stole the case, I could give the other one what’s left and maybe, just maybe, smooth things over a bit. Kind of hedging my bets a little.

Almost smart.

Yeah, almost. But wasn’t playing horseshoes or hand grenades so close only got me in deeper trouble. “I hid the rest of the money Miguel, if you want it, you have to keep us both alive.

“How much you hid?” he asked.

“About a quarter of a million,” I said flatly, trying to be brave.

He walked up to me and held the gun so close to my face I flinched fearing it would poke me, “It might be worth a quarter of a million just to kill your ass.”

Stan finally spoke up and put his hand on Miguel’s, “Easy there, he ain’t your problem, the kid was just being safe. You know, like you would.”

Stan said that?

Yeah, he did, I couldn’t believe it either. Maybe he was just trying to avoid bloodshed or didn’t want things to get any worse, but what he said calmed Miguel down, for about a second.

Then, he pointed the gun at Stan and said, “You stay out of this asshole, you’re the one who got us in this shit. You should just go home to mamma now and let me get my money.”

“It’s my money Miguel,” Stan said, “You know that, we had a deal.”

“A deal that you fucked up hombre, it’s my money now. You should just go home and forget all about it alright.”

Stan shuffled on his feet for a second and started down Miguel and his gun, “I’m not leaving Miguel, If you’re going to take my money, you’re going to earn it.”

Miguel looked puzzled, his eyes darted back and forth between me and Stan, “Alright then, you can die with this asshole,” he said motioning to me. “Your funeral.”

I nearly choked, it finally sank in that I wasn’t going to get out of this alive. Even if I gave him all of the money, Miguel wasn’t going to let me live and Stan, well, I knew he wasn’t too happy with me.

I started wishing I’d gone for that last meal or something. Most of all though, I wanted to run away again, or better yet, never have run away at all.

Runaway: Part Fifteen

So what happened next?

Miguel quickly frisked the two of us. Apparently Stan was clean but it only took him two seconds to find my gun. He plucked it off of me with a smile on his face and stuffed it down the back of his pants. He didn't even waste his time with a smart comment or an insult, for his lack of refinement, he sure was a smug asshole at times.

Anyway, he then walked around behind us and told us to get moving. He must have tucked the gun in his pocket or something because we walked through open air for a good three blocks or so. Someone surely would have seen him waving around that hand cannon if he hadn't, even in that neighborhood at that time of night.

So what did you see?

You mean besides my life flashing before my eyes? Just the look on Stan's face. He looked, I don't know, empty, broken you know? I couldn't tell if he was mad at me or mad at himself or what. He just looked deflated. Like someone had taken all of the wind out of him. My heart kind of broke for him though. I realized that the whole thing was my fault and that my stupid fucking decisions were hurting other people, mainly those that cared about me and helped me.

I guess I felt pretty low right then. On the upside though, it stopped my hand from shaking, it's kind of hard to be nervous about dying when you think you deserve it.

Anyway, where did Miguel take you?

He took us to his car that he, like me, parked a good ways from the station. The funny thing was that I was expecting one of those giant tank cars that gangsters usually drive. Instead, he had this beat up sedan looking thing. When Stan and I slid in to the back seat, we felt like we were packed in shoulder to shoulder and, though neither of us are small guys, we're not exactly huge either. It was just pretty comical for Miguel to be driving a sardine can on wheels.

So what happened then?

Sorry, I'm stalling, I know. It's my story though and I want to tell it my way.

I understand, but we don't have a lot of time.

I understand. So anyway. We started driving. He must have gotten a few good blocks or so before he realized that he didn't have a clue where in the Hell he was going. He must have been nervous too.

But while he was stammering around the city in this metal box he called a car, Stan kept looking over at me, making motions with his head and trying to say something with his eyes. It was like he was trying to communicate some kind of plan but I sure as Hell couldn't get any of it. Grunts, eye gestures and head movements don't make much for a conversation to me. I just sat there looking at him while his frustration grew and his movements became more aggressive, like he was speaking English louder in France.

Eventually though, Miguel did figure it out, and he twisted his rear view mirror so he could see the two of us and said, "So where am I going chico? Where's the money at?"

I froze. I didn't know what to do. I just looked at his eyes in the rear view and tried not to throw up.

Somehow though, I began speaking, it was really broken and shaky, but understandable, "If you're going to kill me no matter what, why should I show you where it is?"

Miguel let out a mean growl, he wasn't happy about it, "Because you little shit, you tell me, I'll make it quick. If you don't, I'll get two sick ass homeys to go postal on your ass with knives, bamboo and a car battery. We can make you suffer a long time chico. You believe it."

Must have been a pretty scary moment. Not easy to have that kind of threat hanging over you.

It was. I felt a lump in my throat. I'd gotten used to the idea of dying a while back but this was a new level of fear. It hit me right in the stomach, it felt like I was choking on it. I felt bile come up and I just knew I was going to puke. I bent over to let it fly, if you know what I mean, but the urge subsided.

Miguel let out a chuckle and said, "Aww, little bitch going to be sick?"

It was strange though, when he said that, anger flashed across me and the fear went away. It was like I could only hold one emotion at a time. Immediately my brain went into overdrive and, before I'd formed the thought, I sat up and said, with a stern voice even, "I'm hypoglycemic you asshole, I need to eat something or I will be."

"You can eat when you're dead, tell me where the money is," Miguel shot back.

Stan slid forward and put his hand on the back of Miguel's seat, "You wouldn't deny a man his dying meal now would you? That's fucking cruel. That's not you Miguel, I know that."

"Things change man, things change, but you're right."

Stan leaned back and the car got real quiet. We drove for what seemed like hours and all you could hear was three people breathing and the sound of the tires on the road. It was dead. You wanted to scream, to do something, but everyone just sat there.

You'd think I'd had formulated a plan in that time but no such luck. I was too scared and too amazed to think rationally. All that I could think about was reaching around, grabbing one of Miguel's guns and dueling it out with him there in the car.

However, he was bigger than me, a Hell of a lot calmer and a much better shot, not good odds. Worst of all, if the struggle got out of hand or I shot him in the car, God knows what would have happened, we could have crashed into a telephone poll and all been dead. I couldn't take any chances.

So, instead, you waited?

I know it sounds stupid, but yes. I waited and waited until Miguel finally pulled into a small gas station before I even formed a complete thought, much less took action.

Unfortunately, the first complete thought was kicking myself for not running to the cops after the PI was killed. I knew then I was in over my head, I just didn't know how far. I should have just run to them, did my time and chalked it all up to a big mistake. But I did what I always had done and kept running and now I was finally paying for it, for all of it.

After that, I wished that the cops knew where I was now. They could get me out of this, it may not be pretty, but at least I'd have a decent chance of being alive when it was over. Better to be judged by twelve than carried by six, so the old saying goes.

Then, finally, the thought went somewhere. I wished that I had a way of telling them where the Hell I was. After all, I was sure that they were looking for me, for questioning if nothing else. They had to have pieced together the whole PI thing by now and, even if they hadn't my wife had to be seriously pissed, worried or both. Either way, they had to be looking for me, at least somewhat.

Now, all of that happened in a couple of seconds because, when I was done thinking, I was greeted by Miguel opening the door. I looked up at him from the seat and he just snarled at me, didn't say anything, well, nothing intelligible anyway. I think he muttered, "Get your food gringo" or something to the like, but the way it spilled out it sounded more like a snarling wild animal than English.

I stepped out of the car and made quick note that Miguel stuffed his gun in his front pocket. I don't know how the Hell it fit in that pocket, but it meant he had both his gun and mine and, even if I could get one off of him, I was still as good as dead, not with the kind of shot I was destined to be.

So, instead, I walked into this little Quick-E-Mart, shoulder to shoulder with Stan while Miguel hovered a few feet behind us. I quickly ran through all of my options for the thousandth time and came up empty. Nothing seemed to work, as in, not getting me shot.

But then I had a master stroke, I walked in quickly grabbed a whole bunch of candy, a few sodas and a few odds and ends and threw it down on the counter. Then I made my bold move, I paid for it all myself using my credit card.

Why is that such a bold move?

Think about it, I knew the cops were looking for me and I figured, if they were, they were probably tracking my cards, ATM, credit and otherwise. I just knew that would send up a flare. I just didn't know how long it would take.

So, with that in mind, I did my best to stall. This was one of those gas stations with a little restaurant inside and, though the place itself was closed the booths were still open. I threw my strange assortment of purchases down on the table and started, as slowly as I could, eating.

A few minutes later, Stan sat down next to me, having gotten himself a coffee and some kind of pastry that I couldn't identify, and followed suit. Miguel, being the kind of guy he was, sat down across from us and folded his arms across his chest, watching us like hawks.

I ate painfully slow, looking out the window for any sign of life, but it never came. I ate three candy bars and drank two sodas, all by taking the tiniest of nibbles and sips. I felt like a child almost, but, with Miguel hovering over us, I guess it'd be easy to feel that way.

But, as you might imagine, it wasn't long before Miguel grew impatient. He checked his watch and looked up at us and said, "It's been almost thirty minutes gringos, we gotta go."

I looked over at Stan who, somehow, was still calm not looking too upset over the whole situation. I looked down at my food and saw that I still had a bag of chips and another soda left.

"Now gringo, now!" Miguel said, startling everyone within earshot, including the attendant.

I felt the air leave my body, I knew help wasn't coming. It was over. I said a silent prayer to myself, well, after kicking myself for letting my last meal be cheap junk food, and resolved myself to making my ending quick.

Stan slid out of the booth and I did the same, my body trembling. I straightened my shirt, I guess in a failed attempt to find my dignity, and we started marching out of the gas station.

But then, just as we were about to leave, I heard the door chime sound and in walked, in the most blessed of all sights, a member of Charlotte's finest. I looked up at him, grinning ear to ear and he immediately recognized me.

"Jake Simpson," he called out, still about fifteen feet away, "You're going to have to come with me. We've got some questions we need to ask you."

I didn't care that I was going to jail, it was over, everything was over and, just like that, I was saved. It was the most uplifting feeling in the world, it felt like I was walking on air after months of moving through water. I was free and it was all I could do to restrain a cheer of some kind. But, can you blame me, it was all over.

Or, at least, so I thought.

Miguel, who was behind us, must have pulled out one of his guns and fired it up into the air. Stan and I hit the dirt out of reflex and then he took a second shot, this one right at the cop. When I heard that gun go off that second time, I thought he was dead but somehow, the guy ducked or Miguel missed and the shot struck a display behind him.

The cop pulled out his gun a pointed it at Miguel but before he could squeeze the trigger Miguel called out, "You make one move I'll blow this Gringo's head off. Get your ass outside now!"

Laying face down on the ground, I couldn't see much of what was going on, just flashes and shadows, but it didn't take a genius to figure it out. Miguel was pointing his gun squarely at my head and taunting the cop.

I prayed it wasn't true but the suspicion was confirmed when I saw the shadow of a knee beside me and felt the barrel of a gun pressed against the back of my head. I was too afraid to move. I just listened and, when I heard the door chime and the cop leave, I knew he was gone. Miguel responded in kind, taking the gun away from my head, but replacing it with a boot in my back.

Stan and I were both breathing hard, practically choking on every inhale. I tried not to cry but my breathing became staggered as I stifled sobs. I thought I was ready for death, but I guess I wasn't, or maybe it was the uncertainty that was getting to me, I don't know. But I was losing it.

I think that's understandable though, I mean, those were pretty extreme circumstances.

Yeah but Stan, well, he was cool. he didn't even look deflated anymore and, after a few minutes, I could barely hear him breath at all, it was amazing. I really started to look up to the guy, he was facing death with such a stone face I just couldn't believe it. I mean, he wasn't even mad at me for it, at least not right then. Somehow is seemed like it was just the most natural thing in the world for him.

But he hit the dirt just as hard as you right?

Yeah, but that was self preservation and I don't see self preservation as the same thing as cowardice. At least that's what they taught me in those self defense classes I took.

Anyway, what happened next?

Well, I was expecting him to just get up and walk out with us, or maybe shoot us right there on the gas station floor. But he just hovered over us and, after a few minutes, the entire gas station was flooded with blue lights and, a few minutes after that, I could hear helicopters overhead. There must have been a hundred cops out there not counting the ones in the air.

Actually, those were news copters, the police ones came later.

Heh, my fucking luck there isn't it? You don't realize how bad things are until the news reporters show up do you?

Hey! I resent that, my wife is a newspaper reporter.

Sorry, but it's true. But anyway. It was obvious right then that, like it or not, I was in the middle of a hostage situation and guess who was playing the role of the helpless victim. Me.

Runaway: Part Sixteen

So, in a few week's time, you went from king of the world to helpless fool on the floor of a gas station. What had to be going through your head?

Well, right then nothing. I was just listening for clues, trying to figure out what was going on. But all I could see out the side of my eyes was a sea of blue and all I could hear was Miguel mumbling to himself.

Sounds like you didn't know what the Hell was going on.

Pretty much. I wanted to though, I wish I did. Hell, I wish I did now. I just knew that I didn't have the courage to move. That, besides my trembling, I was frozen to the floor.

So what did happen?

Well, almost immediately the power went out. I figured the police had cut it. However, with all of those sirens out front one could still easily see around, it was just that everything had a dark blue tint to it and you had to squint a little. But then again, where I was on the floor, it was still dark and that was pretty damn scary.

Anyway, after a few minutes in the shadows on the floor, I felt Miguel's hand on the back of my shirt and he jerked me up. It felt like he was going to snap my neck in the process, I could feel the collar of my shirt digging into my throat as he lifted me up. I scrambled to my feet as fast as I could to avoid being choked, but if you look here, you can see that I got a nasty cut here and a burn here from it.

Ouch.

The worst part was not being able to breathe. I've always had a fear of being suffocated that scared the Hell out of me as much as the pain. No matter what though, Miguel got his wish and I was on my feet in only two seconds flat.

From there, he took two steps backwards and, though I couldn't see him, I could hear him raise his gun up and point it at me. He didn't say "Don't move" or anything to the like, but I got the point perfectly. So I just stood there, idly holding my hands up in the air, staring out over the display shelves and into the sea of twinkling blue lights.

It was right about then that a voice, probably aided by a megaphone of some kind, came blaring in the station. "Miguel Hernandez, let the hostages go and come out with your hands up!"

I wanted to nod my approval to the plan, but I still didn't dare to move. However, I did wonder how they Hell the cops figured out his name so fast, kind of figured he was a familiar face but I couldn't imagine how.

Actually, to answer that one, the LAPD gave the Charlotte guys a heads up that he was coming, even faxed over a wanted poster with his picture on it. The uniform that stumbled in there after you must have recognized him.

Makes even more sense. I should have guessed that the Charlotte Police wouldn't be on top of it, not after the way Stan talked about them.

Okay, go on.

I don't know if Miguel gave them a gesture or anything, but he didn't say anything back. So, rather than trying to find some way for Miguel to get in touch with them, or at least trying something new, every ten minutes or so the cops would come over their loudspeaker and blare another request or demand, "Let the hostages go", "Miguel, what do you want", etc.

The problem was that, even though I still couldn't see him, I could hear Miguel jump because that thing was loud and, in between commands from the police, that place was dead quiet. Since the the attendant must have gotten out somehow, it was just the three of us, panting and gasping for air. You could have heard a roach scurrying across that sticky floor.

So the cops never did anything to actually communicate with Miguel?

Well, after a while, they said something about a phone and a few minutes later, the door opened and someone tossed in a small padded package. I couldn't see it much less describe it since it fell into the shadows of the store, but Miguel picked it up and seemed to instinctively know what to do with it, like he'd done it a thousand times before.

"What do you want pigs!" He said angrily.

I couldn't make out what the other guy was saying, but he seemed to have a calming voice. It put me at ease, but it didn't seem to do much for Miguel. He kept screaming into the phone, something about the "pigs" killing his friends in LA and that he was going to get revenge by killing the two assholes in front of him and taking out as many Charlotte's cops as he could.

Though he wasn't much of a wordsmith, he said it all quite masterfully, good enough to get the guy on the phone to back down anyway. Then, whoever was doing the negotiating started to get Miguel to talk, or at least try to, he started asking all of these questions, I couldn't hear exactly what, but Miguel kept talking about how he didn't have to say anything to him.

I don't know, but after a while, the guy must have hit a nerve with Miguel. Miguel had always been angry and upset, but now he was screeching into the phone and even stomping around the room a little bit, "What do you know about my mother! You don't know shit you pig!" he screamed.

Next thing I knew though, Miguel was crying. Actually, literally crying. I don't know what head games they were playing with him, but they were really messing with him. He was doing his best to sound angry but you could hear the sobs in his voice, it was actually quite pitiful. I almost felt bad for the guy.

It turns out that Miguel was abused by his mother until he was seven, when she abandoned him. He grew up in foster homes after that. Eventually though, they found her dead, drug overdose apparently, Miguel didn't take it well, but what fifteen-year-old would? Especially considering he was the one who had to identify the body.

Jesus, that's heavy. I bet the psychiatrists are going to discuss his case for a long time. You almost have to feel sorry for him.

Still though, it's no excuse, you have to agree with that.

I'm not excusing him, just feeling sorry for him. No one deserves that, I know it happens all of the time, but no one deserves it. Not even someone like Miguel.

But anyway, he was screaming into the phone.

Yeah, cutting loose on it too. He got so loud that I couldn't even hear him stomping around, much less tell if he still had the gun pointed at me or not. Still though, I wasn't about to turn around and find out.

Instead, all of the head games did nothing but make me more nervous. Somehow I knew the end was near. I'd seen enough of these on TV to know that, once the bad guy gets shaken up, the police come barging in, usually guns blazing. I just kind of prepared myself to hit the ground and began praying, really and truly praying. Something I hadn't done in a long, long time.

So what did happen?

I heard it, I don't know how I heard it over Miguel's screaming and crying, but I heard it. The gun that Miguel was carrying hit the ground, it must have slipped out of his fingers. It bounced twice on the ground, I heard each "dink" against the tile.

Then it went off.

All Hell broke loose. Though apparently the gun was pointed at the ceiling, that was all the cops needed. The front door seemed to explode, glass went everywhere and smoke began to fill the room.

I hit the dirt and I hit it hard, I even knocked the wind out of myself. But it was just in time. Miguel must have pulled my gun out of his pants and I went down just in time to see the snack display in front of me explode with a barrage of bullets, showering me with potato chips and pretzels.

The cops stormed in, Miguel took two shots at them and they opened back with a hailstorm of bullets, it was amazing. I don't know what they were shooting with, but it sounded more like one long thunderclap than a series of bullets being fired. It was deafening and it was followed only by the crash of a display rack and the thud of someone landing on it, hard.

Though I couldn't see what was going on, I knew Miguel was dead. No one could have survived that and the way he fell, well, he wasn't getting up. If I had the wind knocked out of me, he had the life knocked out of him. It was over and I was literally bawling on the floor, just so happy to be done with it.

I just couldn't believe it.

Ok, go on.

Not much more to tell really. Everything after that is pretty much a blur, the hospital said I was in shock, but I think of it as my brain rebooting or something to the like. I just haven't been able to focus on much of anything. Like I was going through a fog.

But anyway, what I do know is that the cops arrested both me and Stan. Standard procedure in these types of things. Another one of those things I picked up in self defense class,

But, as you might imagine, their investigation was a bit more intense than usual. They'd been looking for me for a long time. My wife had apparently reported me missing a two days after I left, making me a local missing person and, after the PI was killed, I apparently became a national celebrity. I just didn't realize it.

The cops blamed me, not only for the PI's death, but for the wounding of the cops in the parking lot afterward. Somehow it was all my fault. Something about me creating the circumstances and whatnot. It's total bullshit, it's just that everyone who is to blame, save maybe Stan, is dead.

What did you say to them, the police

Not much. I'd been in too deep of shock until a few minutes ago. They'd ask me questions and I'd give dazed answers, like I was high on something. Their psychiatrist told them to back off of me, that'd I'd been through too much to be of any help right now.

They, the cops, didn't believe it though, they stopped short of roughing me up, but they got in my face every chance they could. I tried to help them, but nothing came out. Nothing that made sense anyway.

In fact, to be honest, I don't remember calling for you. I only began to stammer out of this daze a few hours ago, first thing I remember, clearly anyway, was laying on my bed in my cell, staring at the ceiling, then it all came flooding back to me like a tidal wave of nightmares.

Then the cops found you crying in your cell and brought you to the psychiatrist and then to me, I know, I heard that part.

So why are you here? Did I ask for a lawyer while I was doing all of that blubbering?

No, Stan sent me. When he heard you came to, he wanted to make sure you were well protected. He's covering all expenses.

Well, damn. I don't know what to say… Wait a second, Stan's out?

Stan was released within hours. They had no new charges to tack onto him and his bail was still good. He wasn't here but more than a few hours for questioning.

That bastard's amazing. How he held it together is beyond me. I'm just not cut out for this shit.

Well, he's very worried about you. That's why he sent me.

He probably just wants to make sure I don't squeal. You have to understand, I love the guy, but I can't trust him, or anyone else for that matter, not now anyway.

Actually, he told me you wouldn't do that. I'm just here to get your side of the story before he posts your bail.

Huh? What? Bail? Why the Hell would he do that?

I don't know why, but he likes you. From what I can tell you've been nothing but trouble to him. But he still wants to help you out, go figure.

Wait a second. I wreck his business, I get him arrested and then almost get him killed and somehow he wants to help me? That doesn't make any sense.

He said any friend of Little John is a friend of his. Apparently he means that.

God I love that redneck bastard. When will my bail be posted?

Within the hour, it's why we had to hurry.

So what happens after that?

I don't know, that's between you and Stan.

Meaning I'm back to square one, running away again. Figures, it just figures…

Cut the tape. This is over.

Notes:

After the interview, Jake's $150,000 bail was posted. The person who paid it left a false name and address. Jake and Stan both missed their scheduled court appearances and are considered fugitives. Police are currently searching for any information as to their whereabouts. They are to be considered armed and dangerous should you spot them.

Two weeks after this recording, a letter was received at the law office of Marthow & Associates. The letter was signed by Jake Simpson. It waved all confidentiality and asked for the interview to be made public in order "to let the world see why I did the things I did and understand that I'm not an evil man, just a frightened, lost human being".

The tape was then turned over to freelance journalist Danny Esposito, who in turn arranged it's publication in newspapers nationwide.

It is the hope of this paper the the printing of this transcript will aid not only in his arrest, but in his receiving the humane treatment all human beings deserve. It is our sincerest wish for Jake to turn himself in peacefully, and, if he's reading this, he should know that the staff of this paper will aid in that transition any way possible.

If you have any information on his whereabouts, please contact your local authorities.




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Raven's Rants:
The First Five Years


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