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“You mean you want to steal it?”
“Did I say ‘steal’? No, I did not. I said ‘borrow.’?”
“What do I say when he finds out it’s missing?”
“Tell him you took it to Jimmy to get serviced. Tell him the check oil light was on.”
“He does all that himself. He doesn’t trust Jimmy.”
“Then tell him I stopped around and borrowed it and there was nothing you could do to stop me. And you can tell him I’m okay.”
“He?
??s gonna yell at me. I hate when he yells at me. And then Mom’s gonna be mad because you didn’t stop there and she’s gonna cut me off from dessert. And tomorrow is meatloaf and chocolate cake. You owe me for this one. I might not even help you except it’s not every day I get to meet a celebrity like Mysterioso. Wait until I tell Lowell. He’s gonna poop himself.”
—
Dwayne dropped Riley and Emerson off at Motel 5 on Interstate 40 and promised he’d be back in the morning. A week ago Riley would have thought twice about sharing a bed with a strange man, but now she was too tired to care. And she was thinking that Emerson was strange in a nonthreatening way that was sort of charming. One room for the two of them was okay with her. If the NSA or FBI broke down the door she’d rather not be alone.
So here she was at one A.M., wide awake with Emerson’s arm casually thrown across her, his body radiating heat, his breathing even. They’d watched some television, crawled into bed with most of their clothes on, and Emerson had fallen asleep without incident. She was struggling. She was especially struggling for the last half hour when the arm curled around her. Crap on a cracker, she liked it! How horrible is that?
She finally found sleep somewhere around two A.M. When she work up at six-thirty Emerson was showering. An hour later they checked out of the motel and walked across the street to a gas station convenience store to wait for their rendezvous with Dwayne. Riley had a Coke Slurpee and nachos, and Emerson ate three granola bars.
“Wow, three granola bars,” Riley said. “Do you know how many calories you just swallowed?”
“I have a high rate of metabolism,” Emerson said. “And I probably consumed less than you did with those nachos.”
“No way,” Riley said. “The cheese is fake. There’s almost no food value in the nachos and hardly any calories.”
“Then why do you eat it?”
“It tastes good. And they didn’t have any hot dogs.”
“You would have a hot dog for breakfast?”
“Only if there weren’t any cinnamon rolls.”
The Pontiac GTO pulled into the parking lot. All thirty-five hundred pounds of it, growling the low rumbling sound that used to be the mating call of the American automotive industry.
Dwayne swung the heavy door open and climbed out, tossing Riley the keys. “It’s all yours, sis. Don’t scratch the paint.”
“Did you tell Mom and Dad it was for me?”
“Yeah. Mom’s stompin’ around in a state. Dad says for you to be careful. He said to give you this.” He handed Riley a heavy brown paper lunch bag.
Inside was their dad’s old Smith & Wesson.
Riley teared up and nodded. “Tell him thanks. Can we drop you somewhere?”
“No. Freddie Schmidt is gonna pick me up and then we’re going to the all-you-can-eat buffet at Big Bob’s.”
—
Emerson sat in the passenger seat, holding the gun awkwardly in his hands while Riley drove the GTO. “Is it loaded?” he asked.
“It’s loaded.”
“It belongs to your father?”
