Stiffed (20 page)

‘Have you seen them or not?’

‘Not.’

‘Thanks.  You were a great help.’  I start pe
daling away.  Where the hell do kids get their manners these days?  I asked him a civil question, all he needed to do was give me a civil answer.

‘Pedo!’ the kid shouts after me.  A stone lands on the grass in front of me.

I glance back.  Kids are scrabbling in the dried, yellowing grass, looking for anything they can throw.  Another stone lands a couple of meters to one side.

They’re all chanting it now. 
‘Pedo!  Pedo!  Pedo!’

I speed up, pumping the pedals furiously.  Other kids and parents around the park are staring at me. 
Great.  As well as murder, kidnap, terrorism, dangerous driving, assault and every other offence I’ve committed today they’re going to add pedophile.  I wonder what the record is for being charged with multiple, differing offences at one time?  By this stage of the afternoon I must be America’s most wanted man.

* * *

I exit the park on the far side and head right.  I can still hear the kids’ laughter and cheers.  Kids of today: they should bring back corporal punishment followed by conscription.  That would sort the little punks out.  It was probably a good job I didn’t have my trusty bat with me.  That gawky kid’s dentist would have been sending me a Christmas hamper. 

In my dreams.
  He probably would have kicked my ass.

Well
, the little brats aren’t at the baseball diamond.  But they have to be somewhere.  Carrick Springs isn’t that large a town but, given its 35,000 inhabitants, it isn’t small either.  There’re plenty of places they could be hanging out, including the mall. 

They could be anywhere.

I cycle on for a bit and then just stand on the pedals and glide along. 

Th
is is it. The wall.

The point at which we
finally become unstuck.  Without the cap, we’re lost.  And those damn brat kids are in serious danger.

I start to pedal again.  I’m going to find those little fuckers if it’s the last thing I do.

A red Volkswagen Beetle – the modern version – coasts up next to me.

I glance across at its occupants.

‘Hello, honey,’ Denise says, pointing a pistol at me from an open window.

Shit
!

‘We’ve been looking for you.’

My bowels knot and shift.  Welcome to the last thing I do.

Denise has managed to flatten her straightened hair, but her face looks tired and stressed.  Beyond her
a younger version of Barry White stares over, his dark eyes smoldering.  Leroy Taylor seems to be making this a family affair.

I do the first thing which pops into my head, which is to grab both brake leavers hard.  The bike skids to a stop and I almost take off over the handlebars.

Young Barry and Denise continue on a few yards before grinding to a screeching halt.

I flip the bike round and set off as fast I can.

Behind me the Volkswagen is reversing at speed.

I jump up onto the sidewalk
.

There’s a loud squealing noise
as tires fight to grip tarmac.  I glance over my shoulder.  The Beetle is now facing towards me.

Damn
!  The guy must boost and race cars for a living.

A garbage bag through the window is not going to help.  It won’t be a stop and
search, it’ll be a stop and shot.

I’m heading back towards the baseball park.  As
much as I’d like to scare those kids half to death, the Taylor family on the rampage should be strictly limited to adults.

I
swing down a driveway cutting across the front of the on-coming Beetle and head back the other way.  Behind me the Volkswagen stops and starts reversing again.  We could probably do this a few times, but at some point the car will come to a halt and the shooting will start.

I hang a left, my legs pumping as fast as I can make them.

The Beetle draws up alongside again.

‘Do you want me to pop you in the ass, you dumb motherfucker?’ Denise as
ks, pointing the pistol at me.

Is that a rhetorical question?
  Does anybody want to be shot in the ass?

‘Stop the
Goddamn bike,’ she orders.

Not a chance in hell.  Does she think I have a death wish?
  That I’m going to willingly surrender to the psychotic Taylor family?

I gently squeeze the brakes,
then jump off the sidewalk swerving behind the Beetle taking a right hand turn.  The car overshoots, braking hard.

I put my head down, my legs pumping
for all they are worth.  I can hear the Volkswagen reversing at speed.  I look up to see a police car coming straight towards me.

You couldn’t make this up.  Nobod
y would believe you.  If there’s a God, he’s obviously decided to conduct an experiment into determining how much crap you can throw at one person before he cracks.

I hop back up onto the sidewa
lk and keep pedaling like crazy, zipping past the police car.  Behind me there is a screech of tires.  I glance over my shoulder to see the Beetle accelerate forward on its original course, the police car flipping on its lights and siren, giving pursuit.

Maybe
God isn’t such a callous deity after all.

I stop pedaling and coast for a while.  Up ahead I can hear the shouts of a soccer match.

* * *

Being chased and scared half to death by Denise and
Young Barry at least has a silver lining.  There must be over fifty kids under the age of eleven and two dozen adults spread across two pitches.  Soccer practice.  Her damn kids went to soccer practice.  Probably like they did every Goddamn week.  Talk about over-reacting.  I mean, it wasn’t like there was a bunch of deranged criminals looking for them. 

Well, not yet anyway.

I scan the kids looking for a Crusaders Cap.  I circle a pitch and eventually spot one of Sally’s two brats playing in the centre of defense for a team wearing yellow bibs.  He’s wearing the cap backwards so he can still head the ball.

Bingo!

I wait until the ball has been cleared up field then shout from the sideline: ‘Hey, Storm.’

The kid looks over at me and frowns.

‘Storm, over here.’  I wave my arms.

The kid checks that ball is still at the other end of the pitch and drifts a bit closer.

‘Your mom’s looking for you.  Your dad is coming home early from work.  Given the weather they’re going to head up to the lake.  Go kayaking and swimming.  She wants you to head home.’

‘I’m Cyclone.’

‘She still wants you to head home, buddy.  She sent me to fetch you.’

‘She’s not my
mom, she’s my step-mom.’

Great, a pedantic brat.

‘Well, your step-mom wants you to go home.’

‘But we’re winning 3
-1.’  He glances back at the game to make sure he isn’t going to be called into action in the next few seconds.

‘I’m sure the team will cope without you for the rest of the game.’

‘I guess,’ he mutters.  ‘Who are you, in any case?’

I smile at the parent a few feet away, trying to reassure him that I’m not trying to
kidnap the damn brat, nor that I’m trying to prevent others from kidnapping him.

‘Me? 
Tadhg.  Your mother’s friend.  Annabelle’s friend.’

‘Oh yeah, the idiot.’

I glance across at the parent and shrug.  The guy’s wearing a huge smile, enjoying the show.

‘My
step-mom thinks you’re a moron,’ Cyclone continues.

‘Well, I’m the moron sent
to make sure you get home, okay?’

‘I need to tell Coach Wilson we’re leaving.’  The kid sprints to the far touch line where he talks to a
grey-haired man in shorts and a vest.

‘You look like you’ve been in a war,’ the parent says.

‘You don’t know the half of it.  War is a damn sight easier than the crap I’ve been going through.  At least in a war there are gaps between the battles.’

He won’t be smiling when he gets home and sees
my photo on the news.  And I guess I’m just about to add kiddie-snatcher to my list of crimes.

Cyclone arrives back
minus his yellow bib.  His place on the pitch has been taken by a kid half his size.  The coach is going to have to re-arrange his defense unless he wants the penalty area peppered with high crosses.

We start to head to the other pitch
to find his brother. 

‘
I’ll take your cap, so you can put on your bike helmet,’ I offer.

Cyclone looks at me skeptically, as if I’m conning him out of a million dollars, and hands it over
reluctantly.  I re-adjust the strap and pop it on.  Finally something seems to be going right.  I have the kids safe and sound and the million dollars.

This thing might work out okay after all.

* * *

I know there’s something wrong
as we near the entrance to the cul-de-sac.  I can see red and blue lights swirling between the houses and trees.  The police have arrived at Sally’s house.

For damnation’s sake
!  I take one step forward and two back.  It seems that it’s
never so bad that it can't get worse.  No doubt Sally and Annabelle are now in custody.  I bust a gut to get both of them released and almost immediately they’re re-ensnared.  Talk about rough justice.

And I’ve no idea how to even begin
to plan a jail break.

‘Wait up, boys,’ I say to Storm and Cyclone, slowing to a halt.

‘What’s wrong, Tad?’ Cyclone says, stopping next to me.

‘I don’t know.’

‘Has there been an accident?’

‘Maybe.
  I don’t know.’

Now what the hell am I meant to do?  I guess I should
allow the kids go on and let the police look after them; cut my losses here and see if I can get Jason and Paavo released.  At least I now have the cap and the million dollars to bargain with.  Perhaps I can persuade Pirelli to help me take on the Taylor family?  It would be foolish to try and tackle them on my own and I’m all out of friends that I’d be prepared to put on the line; or would be happy to put themselves on the line.

A
pink van glides to a halt next to us, Annabelle’s Delights painted on the side in purple script.  The window slides down, the door on the far side opening.

‘Where the hell have you three been?’ Annabelle says from behind the steering wheel.  ‘We’ve been looking all over for you.’

Sally clears the front of the vehicle and smothers the two kids, who try to shy away from the affection.

Annabelle and Sally obviously left before the police arrived and have been driving around the neighborhood looking for the two brat
s.  Maybe justice isn’t so rough after all.

‘We were at soccer practice, Sally,’ Cyclone says.  They’re still refusing to call her Mom.

‘I said they’d be …’ I start, before trailing off.

‘Don’t, Tadhg,’
Sally warns.  ‘Just … don’t.’

‘We need to go, Sally,’ Annabelle says.  She’s just noticed the police activity in the cul-de-sac.  ‘Sally!  We need to go.’

‘Go where?’ Sally says, looking over quizzically at her friend.

‘To one of my shops.
  As much chocolate and ice cream as everyone can eat.’

‘Way to go,’ Storm cheers. 

‘I thought Dad was coming home early and we were going to the lake,’ Cyclone says.

‘We’re doing that after,’ Sally
replies, not even bothering to question the statement.

‘What are we going to do with the bikes?’
Storm asks.

‘Put them in the bushes over there.’  Annabelle points to some shrubbery.

‘They’ll be stolen,’ Cyclone protests.

‘We could put them in the van,’ I suggest.

‘Too unhygienic and we don’t have time,’ Annabelle says to me.  To the kids she says: ‘I’ll buy you new ones.  Better ones.  Hurry, come on.  This deal expires in ten minutes.’

The three of us wheel our bikes over the bushes.  I shove each one in as the kids run back to the van.  When I get there, there’s no room in the cab.

‘Get in the back, Tadhg.’

‘The back?’

‘Come on, stop messing about; get in the back.’

I head reluctantly to the rear of the van and let myself in. 
It’s freezing inside.  As I close the door, the world fading to black, Annabelle pulls off.  I feel like Marino and Junior, rolling around in the back of a delivery van.  Only in this case it’s full of specialty chocolate.  Death by chocolate.  Now that would be a way to go.