of the morning.
Travis jogged over to the main cul-de-sac, the last of several smaller sequential culs-de-sac, just outside a glass-walled shopping mall. He tried to pretend the run didn’t bother him. It was barely a fourth of a mile. A sprint like that couldn’t tire a he-man like him, could it? He laughed bitterly. Of course it could. He was old and out of shape. A punching bag for bathroom bullies.
After weaving past several closed buildings, he arrived at the Butcher Shop. It was his favorite restaurant in the West End. Most of the other joints served prissy sculpted food in minuscule portions, usually topped with sun-dried tomatoes or asparagus tips. California food, he called it. The Butcher Shop was about the only place in the entire area you could get a decent steak, something you could sink your teeth into.
Steak—my God, he remembered that. Vaguely, anyway. A delicacy from his presalad days. He jogged back and forth outside the restaurant, swinging around an iron lamppost, trying to shake off the chill. It was a brisk night for April; downright cold, actually. He hoped Moroconi wouldn’t be late. He began to realize how nebulous his instructions had been. What exactly was their plan? If Moroconi was going to turn himself in, why didn’t they just meet near the police station? And where exactly were they going to meet? Should he be looking in the alley behind the building, in the trash bins, or what?
Fortunately, Travis didn’t have to anguish over these questions for long. He heard tires squealing in the distance; probably not all that loud, but jarring in the silence. Soon he could see the source of the commotion—a large black pickup truck. But these were pedestrian-only streets. How …?
He immediately saw the answer to his question. The truck exploded through a ground-level barricade without even slowing down. Splintered wood flew skyward, but the truck kept coming. From one of the smaller culs-de-sac, the truck roared up the curb and advanced along the main sidewalk. It burst through a sidewalk café, crushing white wire chairs under its wheels and sending tables flying. The truck passed through another small cul-de-sac, jumped another curb, then dropped into the main cul-de-sac.
Travis froze in his tracks.
The truck executed a full three-hundred-and-sixty-degree turn, laid rubber with all four tires, and came to a squealing stop in front of the Butcher Shop.
Moroconi leaned out of the window. “Whaddya think? Am I ready for the Demolition Derby?”
Travis gripped the truck door. “What the hell are you doing?”
“I didn’t want to be late. Since you’re such a hot-shit lawyer and all.”
“Where’d you get the truck, Moroconi?”
“It’s a loaner from a buddy down at Orpha’s Lounge.”
“I’ll just bet.” Travis opened the truck door. “Get out of there, you moron. We’ll take my car to the station. No reason to volunteer additional felony charges.”
“Shee-it!” Moroconi shook his head. “You are some kind of stupid, aren’t you? Did you really think I was going to let you haul me back to the cops?” He thunked Travis in the center of his chest. “That I busted out just so you could drag me back?”
Travis’s forehead became one long furrow. “I don’t understand. If you’re not coming with me, then why—”
Travis never had a chance to finish his sentence. Suddenly, they were both engulfed by brilliant white light emanating from the other end of the cul-de-sac.
“Who is it?” Travis shouted, squinting into the light. “Who’s there?”
No response.
Without saying a word, Moroconi pulled a crumpled piece of paper out of his pocket and shoved it into Travis’s hand.
“What’s this?” Travis asked. “I don’t want this. Who’s shining that light?”
Travis stared into the white sheen, his eyes watering. It had to be a supercharged searchlight, souped up to a couple thousand or so candlepower. He could make out the shadowy outline of the man
Travis jogged over to the main cul-de-sac, the last of several smaller sequential culs-de-sac, just outside a glass-walled shopping mall. He tried to pretend the run didn’t bother him. It was barely a fourth of a mile. A sprint like that couldn’t tire a he-man like him, could it? He laughed bitterly. Of course it could. He was old and out of shape. A punching bag for bathroom bullies.
After weaving past several closed buildings, he arrived at the Butcher Shop. It was his favorite restaurant in the West End. Most of the other joints served prissy sculpted food in minuscule portions, usually topped with sun-dried tomatoes or asparagus tips. California food, he called it. The Butcher Shop was about the only place in the entire area you could get a decent steak, something you could sink your teeth into.
Steak—my God, he remembered that. Vaguely, anyway. A delicacy from his presalad days. He jogged back and forth outside the restaurant, swinging around an iron lamppost, trying to shake off the chill. It was a brisk night for April; downright cold, actually. He hoped Moroconi wouldn’t be late. He began to realize how nebulous his instructions had been. What exactly was their plan? If Moroconi was going to turn himself in, why didn’t they just meet near the police station? And where exactly were they going to meet? Should he be looking in the alley behind the building, in the trash bins, or what?
Fortunately, Travis didn’t have to anguish over these questions for long. He heard tires squealing in the distance; probably not all that loud, but jarring in the silence. Soon he could see the source of the commotion—a large black pickup truck. But these were pedestrian-only streets. How …?
He immediately saw the answer to his question. The truck exploded through a ground-level barricade without even slowing down. Splintered wood flew skyward, but the truck kept coming. From one of the smaller culs-de-sac, the truck roared up the curb and advanced along the main sidewalk. It burst through a sidewalk café, crushing white wire chairs under its wheels and sending tables flying. The truck passed through another small cul-de-sac, jumped another curb, then dropped into the main cul-de-sac.
Travis froze in his tracks.
The truck executed a full three-hundred-and-sixty-degree turn, laid rubber with all four tires, and came to a squealing stop in front of the Butcher Shop.
Moroconi leaned out of the window. “Whaddya think? Am I ready for the Demolition Derby?”
Travis gripped the truck door. “What the hell are you doing?”
“I didn’t want to be late. Since you’re such a hot-shit lawyer and all.”
“Where’d you get the truck, Moroconi?”
“It’s a loaner from a buddy down at Orpha’s Lounge.”
“I’ll just bet.” Travis opened the truck door. “Get out of there, you moron. We’ll take my car to the station. No reason to volunteer additional felony charges.”
“Shee-it!” Moroconi shook his head. “You are some kind of stupid, aren’t you? Did you really think I was going to let you haul me back to the cops?” He thunked Travis in the center of his chest. “That I busted out just so you could drag me back?”
Travis’s forehead became one long furrow. “I don’t understand. If you’re not coming with me, then why—”
Travis never had a chance to finish his sentence. Suddenly, they were both engulfed by brilliant white light emanating from the other end of the cul-de-sac.
“Who is it?” Travis shouted, squinting into the light. “Who’s there?”
No response.
Without saying a word, Moroconi pulled a crumpled piece of paper out of his pocket and shoved it into Travis’s hand.
“What’s this?” Travis asked. “I don’t want this. Who’s shining that light?”
Travis stared into the white sheen, his eyes watering. It had to be a supercharged searchlight, souped up to a couple thousand or so candlepower. He could make out the shadowy outline of the man
Similar Books
