Slices by Michael Montoure Read Free Book Online Page B

His
shtick.
    But
now he’d left it behind, forgotten it in his hurry to get rid
of the last car. There was nothing on this mirror at all, and that
unsettled him more than he wanted to admit. As if his luck would run
out now. When in fact, it had plainly run out hours ago.
    “It’s
not like we never killed anybody before.”
    Shut
up, Craig, Gary didn’t say.
    A
flash of red. His eyes dropped to the dashboard for a moment. Might
have been the oil light. Or service
engine soon.
    He
glanced back at the road — nothing ahead but a straight empty
black ribbon of highway — and then he stared at the dashboard
again, like he was trying to read his future in the dials and gauges.
No more lights, not at the moment. Answer
unclear, ask again later, he thought.
    “What’s
the matter?” Craig asked.
    “Nothing.”
    “Okay,
but — is that the engine?”
    “What?”
    “Listen.”
    This
time, Gary heard it. Heard it for real.
    “I
don’t think it’s the engine,” he said. “Sounds
like it’s coming from the back.”
    “Something
loose back there? You think?”
    “I
guess.”
    “We’ll
have to steal a better car next time, huh?” He giggled, and it
was a sound like something had come loose inside him. “Better
car next time.”
    “Sure,
Craig. We will.”
    Car
falling apart, Craig coming to the end of his goddamn rope, man lying
dead in a ditch miles back and miles to go before they slept. And no
damn rabbit’s foot in the car.
    Day
couldn’t get much worse.
    They
hadn’t slept at all, night before. Calling around trying to
call in any favors they could and coming up empty.
    Seemed
like fun at first. Their boss, Mr. Calhoun, he was a good guy. He
never treated them like they were just drivers, just couriers. He let
them hang out with him and his friends, drink some beers, shoot the
shit. Regular guy.
    So
Gary and Craig were in over their heads before they knew it. Hanging
out with big time boys from out of town, drinking and bragging and
placing bets.
    Gary
thought this one was a sure thing, an absolutely sure thing. When he
found out that Mr. Hiroshi, the boss’ guest from out of town,
had a big bet on Johnny Grant, the boxer, he’d just laughed.
    This
was Johnny’s big comeback match, but he’d had it. He was
way past it, and everyone knew it. Everyone, that is, except Mr.
Hiroshi.
    Unsmiling,
he’d made a bet with Gary. A big bet. He’d talked Craig
into going in on it with him. At those long odds, they thought it was
stupid not to take the bet.
    Johnny
won. Craig screamed and railed that it was fixed, that the other guy
went down, but it didn’t matter.
    Here
they were, three days, two convenience store robberies and one liquor
store robbery later, on the road to Vegas with every single dollar
they’d been able to lay hands on. Mr. Hiroshi had flown home,
and Mr. Calhoun hadn’t said they had to get the money to him in person, but he had strongly suggested it, which was almost the same thing. He’d strongly suggested it
would be a lot safer, in fact.
    That
was then, this is now:
    Gary
often forgot that there was anything to the world but coastlines and
cities. He spent all his days sheltered in the shadows of
skyscrapers, in wet, lush, green, rational places, like Vancouver or
Seattle.
    This
was high desert. Nothing recognizable. Rolling scrubland and sickly,
pale green things that might have been trees, their bodies and
branches snaking out in senseless looping waves.
    The
only sign of habitation, besides the road, was the tumbledown
wood-and-barbed-wire fence stretching out to either side, punctuated
every mile or so by incomprehensible red-and-white plastic markers.
Now and then he’d see some kind of building off in the
distance, some barn or something like one, that someone had lashed
together long ago and let the sun and wind beat down, and Gary would
think, Jesus,
someone tried to make it out here, someone tried to make something
that would last, and
he didn’t know whether to be impressed