Raven's Rants

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.

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…

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.

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!" 

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…

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.

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.

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.