“No,” Jack said. “She ever tell him about the cop?”
“I hope not.” She drilled one into the side pocket.
“What was his name?”
“Emiliano Garza,” Kate said. “Are you trying to distract me?”
“Still remember him, huh?”
Kate put her cue on the rail and leaned against the table. “I can still see his face staring at me. I used to wake up in the middle of the night, I’d swear I saw him standing at the end of my bed, grinning at me.”
“You never gave me the full story,” Jack said.
“I couldn’t talk about it at the time,” Kate said.
“How about now?”
She told him how she shot the two cops.
Jack didn’t say anything. He just stared at her.
“The scariest part,” Kate said, “was when we were on the bus, sitting there waiting to leave. Marina had the seat next to the window. She was grinning. We both were thinking we were getting away. Then a green Jeep pulled up next to the bus- Policia on the side. Captain Garza and two others got out.
“You should have seen the look on Marina’s face. She was scared to death. She turned to me and slid down in her seat. I reached into my bag and pulled out the Beretta and showed it to her. She said, ‘What are you going to do?’
“I said, ‘Whatever I have to.’ I was thinking that they must have found the dead cops, or maybe the Jeep?”
Jack said, “How’d they know you were on the bus?”
She picked up the cue stick and put the butt end on the floor and leaned it against the long side of the table. “Unless you had a car,” Kate said, “it was the only way out of town. I watched Captain Garza moving along the side of the bus, looking in the windows, smoking his cigar. He had an automatic in a black holster on his right hip. As he approached our window, we got up and offered our seats to an elderly Mayan couple Marina knew, the Olivares. Marina stood next to me in the crowded aisle, fighting for space as Garza’s men got on the bus, one entering from the front and the other from the rear, yelling and pushing their way down the aisle.
“When they got within ten feet, I drew the Beretta and cocked the hammer. I turned my back as one of the cops approached. I could feel my heart pounding. I was ready to turn and shoot him, but he passed by me.
“They weren’t looking for us. The cops grabbed a short thin Mayan who looked young, no more than twenty. They took him off the bus and tried to cuff his hands and he broke free and took off running across the dusty parking lot. People on the bus were cheering for him, hoping he’d get away.
“I watched Captain Garza draw the pistol from his holster, aim at the man, extending his arm and firing. The man staggered and fell forward in the dirt.
“I could see Garza standing by the Jeep as the bus pulled away. I released the hammer and dropped the Beretta back in my bag and put my arms around Marina. I remember the day; I’ll remember it forever-San Pedro, Guatemala, August 11, 1990.”
Jack came around the table and stood next to her.
“My god,” he said. “I had no idea.”
He put his arms around her and tried to kiss her.
Kate said, “Cool it, will you?” Hands on his chest, pushing him away.
“What’s the matter?”
She pictured Owen watching her and said, “You should probably go.”
“Yeah,” he said. “What am I doing? It’s got to be nine thirty, quarter to ten. I’ve got to go home, get to bed.”
Luke watched part of Spider-Man 2. He was tired and he’d seen it four times. He pushed the power button on the remote and the screen went black. He bunched up his pillow and put his head down and closed his eyes. Leon was next to him, crowding him, so he moved over a couple inches. He heard the clock on the bedside table, ticking. Then he heard voices. He got out of bed and went to the window and looked down. Jack and his mom were on the driveway. Jack put his arms around her and Luke felt sick to his stomach. What was going on? His mom said they were old friends. It looked to Luke like more than that. He went back to bed, but he couldn’t sleep.
THIRTEEN
The next morning, Jodie gave him a ride to the airport. Jack had told her he was leaving, catching an early flight back to Tucson to find a job. Nobody was hiring in Detroit. It was 6:30 a.m. when she dropped him off at the terminal. She parked at the curb, turned in her seat and locked her gaze on him.
“I guess I’ll see you in four years.”
That was how long it had been since she’d last seen him; Jodie being funny.
“Stay straight, Jackie, will you please? For me, if not for yourself.”
Jack said, “My bad-boy days are over.”
“You’re a good person. You’ve got so much to offer. Get a job like the rest of us and make something of yourself.”
Problem was, he wasn’t like most people. He’d never be able to hold a job and play it straight. He thanked Jodie for everything, leaned over, kissed her on the cheek. He got out and opened the back door and pulled his knapsack out of the backseat. Jodie waved through the window and he waved back.
He went in the terminal, took the escalator to the second floor, read the signs, and went left looking for long-term parking. He walked behind the first row of cars. There was a cool breeze, wind whipping through the parking structure. He heard a jet, saw it through an opening in the parking deck and watched it take off.
A dark SUV approached and crept past him, looking for a parking space. He studied the nameplates on the cars, stopping at a Mercedes E500. He went around the car, checked to see if the doors were locked. They were. Checked the frame under the driver’s door but didn’t find what he was looking for. He moved down the row to a Cadillac Escalade, did the same thing again. No luck.
There was a green Lexus 430 in the next row. He walked around it and checked all the obvious hiding places and found a yellow magnetic box covered with road scum attached to the frame under the rear bumper. He pried it open and there was a spare key. He unlocked the door, threw his knapsack on the front passenger seat, and got in behind the wheel. The parking ticket was in a cup holder in the console.
He’d learned this trick in the early days of stealing cars. Keeping a spare key somewhere sounded like a good idea, but it was almost as dumb as going into a store for a pack of cigarettes and leaving your car running. Or parking in a bank lot and going in to use the ATM-it’ll only take a minute-and leaving the keys in the ignition.
Best place to find the car you were looking for was to stake out a sporting event, movie theater, or airport. What he also did-and it took a little longer this way-was find a car he wanted at an upscale mall or market and follow the person home. He’d break in the next day, find the spare keys and boost the car. That way, it was nice and clean. Better than pulling the lock barrel out of the door with pliers or breaking a window. You didn’t have to worry about car alarms, either.
Jack had worked for a guy named Torcellini, a Sicilian from Palermo who came over to Detroit when he was sixteen and still carried a switchblade in his zippered black boot. Torce, a fan of westerns, had a pencil-thin mustache and sideburns and wore a black Stetson and a duster. He thought he looked like Lee Van Cleef of spaghetti-western fame. “What do you think?” he’d say to Jack with a mean look on his face, the Stetson low over his eyes and Jack would say, “Yeah, I can see it.”
Torce would give him a list of cars he needed, and Jack would find them and bring them in. He got $1,500 for a late-model high-end ride. Cash on the spot. Some weeks he made $9,000. Not bad for a twenty-two-year-old whose friends were trying to scrape together enough money to buy a six-pack.
Torce had chop shops around Detroit where they could strip a car down to its frame in six hours. If it had a blue book value of $20,000, they could strip it and sell the parts for $32,000, or more.
Or he’d boost a car, bring it to the shop, and they’d strip it clean and drop the shell on a street somewhere.
